


Ghost

by KRyn



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M, Season/Series 03, rinch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-13
Updated: 2014-10-13
Packaged: 2018-02-21 00:07:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 42,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2448083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KRyn/pseuds/KRyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was no sign of Finch. No pool of blood on the pavement.</p>
<p>The lack of evidence was almost a relief. Whoever had attacked Harold wanted him alive. That meant they had a chance to get him back.</p>
<p>And John would get him back. No matter what it took.</p>
<p>*****</p>
<p>When Finch is abducted off the street without a trace, Reese, Shaw and Fusco race to assemble and sort through a convoluted jumble of clues in an effort to find him. Unfortunately, the list of enemies who would like to get their hands on Harold Finch is lengthy, and it doesn't help that Harold's secretive nature is working against them. Betrayal comes from an unexpected source and their phantom adversary proves to be a master game player with a sinister agenda. </p>
<p>See notes at the end for spoilers and warnings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

********************************************************************************

“I will give them nightmares to haunt their dreams long after I'm gone.” 

********************************************************************************

 

Harold Finch was tired, but it was a good tired; the type of weariness which acknowledged long hours spent in a worthy pursuit, and promised a solid night's sleep filled with pleasant dreams. 

Their latest Number was safe. 

As was his partner.

It had been a stressful, frantic case, with Reese in the field for nearly 20 hours. He had been in the ex-op's ear for most of that time, stationed in front of his monitors, feeding information as John tracked a gang of drug dealers.

Lost sleep and stiff joints were a small price to pay for saving a life. 

Bear tugged at his leash, pulling gently, as if conscious of his master's fatigue. Despite having been cooped up with him in the Library, the Malinois seemed content to move at his pace, stopping occasionally to sniff at some message left by a local canine. The brief pauses gave Harold the opportunity to ease the twinge in his hip. Sitting for lengthy periods of time always caused him to stiffen up. Walking helped loosen the muscles in his back and shoulders, but there was always an offsetting aggravation provoked by his uneven gait. 

Bear stopped to mark a manicured shrub, allowing Harold the chance to rest and appreciate the crisp, pleasant night and quiet neighborhood they were strolling through.

The steady thrum of activity and dense population of New York City provided a camouflage which nicely disguised their unique endeavor, but there were times Finch missed the peace of the green and gold fields he remembered from his childhood. The well-groomed lawns and towering hedges on this calm residential street were a far cry from the wind-rustled corn and wheat fields of Iowa, but they contained the same proof of of nature's hand in the grand scheme of things, and were a soothing change from concrete and steel.

At just past midnight, he and Bear were the only living creatures in sight, their shadows playing tag with their steps as they moved in and out of the soft glow cast by an occasional streetlight. 

His phone vibrated and he tapped his earpiece to pick up the call he had been anticipating. 

"Mr. Reese. I take it our Honors student is once again reunited with her parents?"

_"Welcomed with open arms. And probably a stricter curfew."_

Harold felt the last of the day's tension bleed out of him at the relaxed warmth in John's voice and allowed himself a small smile, here where no one could see how the tone affected him. Bear looked up, tongue lolling to the side of flashing teeth in a mimicry of a grin, tail wagging as if to dispute the safety of his secret. Harold waggled a warning finger at him before turning his attention back to his partner.

"Excellent. Perhaps her venture into the seamier side of life will put her back on the right track."

_"I don't know, Finch. Even straight 'A' students need to blow off some steam occasionally. You must have done a few things that weren't on the 'approved' list when you were her age."_

Harold flashed to a memory of phone-phreaking Paris, just to prove it could be done, and then later using the same technique in his hack of ARPANET. Not something he was about to share. 

"I was never fifteen, Mr. Reese."

John's low chuckle rumbled in his ear. 

"And what about the gentlemen who were pursuing her?"

_"Carter should have already picked them up,"_ Reese answered. _"Their product, too."_

From the amount of satisfaction in his voice, Harold assumed there had been an opportunity for John to crack a few skulls, and possibly permanently damage some kneecaps. While he didn't condone violence, he wasn't about to argue with Reese's methods on this one. The drug dealers their young Number had stumbled upon during a less than well-thought-out night out on the town deserved to pay a price for their actions. Not only were they selling their product to high school students, they had crossed the line into murder when a rival group disagreed with their plans to expand into other 'markets'. Their Number had witnessed the shooting and they'd been determined to cover their tracks  
.  
 _"I should be back in the city shortly."_

"Very good. Bear and I will be retiring soon as well."

_"Soon? I thought you were leaving the Library when we headed out for Connecticut?"_

"Yes, well, best laid plans..."

_"A new Number?"_

"No, an irritation. Someone, with much more time on their hands than sense, sent out a virus which nearly breeched my firewall."

_"Running into a little competition, Harold? And here I thought your security was impenetrable."_

"I said nearly breeched, Mr. Reese. In any case that would have been only the first layer of defenses. I assure you, my system was never in any danger. The virus was...inventive. For an amateur attempt. I simply spent some time picking it apart...and routing it back to the sender with a little 'gift' showing my appreciation."

A smug smile quirked his lips. The virus he had sent back to the hacker wouldn't quite burn down his system, but it would come close. Live and learn.

"Actually the time spent was fortuitous. I had a late, personal errand to run this evening."

_"Oh? Something scintillating?"_

Harold rolled his eyes. The man never stopped digging for clues. It was a familiar game by now--one of prod and pry, evade and deflect. It kept Harold on his toes, trying to stay two steps ahead of John's curiosity. 

What had begun as a means of evening the balance of power between them, had evolved into an unusual courtship: their dry banter the way they expressed their growing connection; feints, parries and ripostes carrying them closer to that line drawn in the sand--the one that marked the boundary between friends and lovers--a line that he suspected Reese was ready to cross. It was Harold who kept backing away, uneasy about taking that final step. 

It was dangerous, teasing a man like Reese; letting him get close, allowing John to _know_ him. Instead of getting comfortable with John's persistent invasion of his privacy, he should be putting more barriers between them. He should be keeping his distance. That was the rational, cautious thing to do. 

His heart, however, kept wanting to overrule prudence. It urged him to tear down the barricade he had erected around it. To take the risk and open himself to love again. 

Although ex-op would dispute it, John Reese was a beautiful man, inside and out. Sleek and deadly, a predator at the apex of the food chain, he should inspire fear--did, in his adversaries. But Harold had experienced first hand the gentleness and compassion which resided within, had sheltered under his protection and warmth. 

Having the right to claim John as his own, to openly love him, to be the focus of that strength and regard...

A part of him yearned to take the chance, argued that he was already in love with the man. The attraction had been there almost from the beginning. Time and adversity had only strengthened it. They had risked their lives for each other. Saved each other when rational thought should have sent them fleeing in the other direction. 

John would love whole-heartedly, with an unrestrained depth of passion--and therein lay the problem. A giving of that nature needed to matched equally. Harold knew he had it within himself to be a generous, loving partner, but years of secrets and evasions created default settings which were difficult to override.

At times it seemed the barrier his heart chafed against was as permanent as his fused spine. Its foundation had been laid when he was just a child, the day he had realized he could lose his father to something worse than death. Years of hiding from the government had forced him to keep people at arm's length in order to keep his cover stories intact. He had taken the risk with Nathan, had intended to bare his soul to Grace. When he lost them, he had intentionally raised and strengthened that barrier, determined never to feel that level of pain again.

He was chipping away at that wall slowly, with each offer of trust, but dismantling it was proving more difficult than he had anticipated. He had been alone for a very long time. Being 'private' had protected him, and his heart, for years. If he couldn't control that self-protective impulse, he could hurt John so very badly. 

Pride was the other factor. It was difficult enough to be known, but to be _seen_ , was...daunting. In his bespoke suits, which forced an odd sort of courtesy and respect for personal space, he was comfortable. Out of them...

He might protest that he was 'handi-capable', didn't let his fused neck and limp keep him from doing what needed to be done, refused to let chronic pain sideline him. 

But he could never ignore the fact that he was 'less' than what he had been. 

Physically, he was damaged: trapped in a body that inhibited freedom of movement, scarred equally by shrapnel and surgeries. Working around his physical limitations wasn't the biggest concern. Nearly three years of more field work than he had ever imagined had left him in better overall shape, and creativity when it came to sex had never been a problem.

It was the scars, and the weakness they implied that made him hesitant. He hadn't been intimate with anyone since the explosion that had torn apart his life.

Issues with body-consciousness weren't unusual for people with injuries like his. The psychologists who had hovered during his rehab had made that clear, but he had, for the most part, ignored them. At that point he couldn't envision having anyone in his life again whom he trusted enough to risk exposure or rejection. 

Now, though, there was John, and unexpected desire which often left him breathless.

His head told him Reese would look past the scars. He bore enough of his own. But Harold's heart stuttered at the thought there there might be even a glimmer of pity. He had seen enough of it in the faces of the medical staff who had pieced him back together; felt it in the hesitant touch of those who had addressed his physical needs when he couldn't lift a finger to care for himself; still experienced it in the quick discomfited glances of people he passed on the street on days when pain, or stress, or long hours made his awkward gait and stiff neck even more pronounced.

Pride was going to need to take a back seat soon, however. He _did_ want to cross that line, to be John's lover, his partner in all things. He just needed a little more time to sort things out. To gather his courage. 

_"Finch, you still there?"_

"Always," he murmured before he could catch himself. 

_"Just checking."_

The obvious concern in that comment broke him out of his reverie. Harold shook off the uncertainties his thoughts had prompted. He had a partner to placate. A worried Reese was a determined Reese, worse than Bear pursing a ball that had rolled under one of the Library shelves. Best to derail him before he decided to dig deeper. 

"If you must know, a rare manuscript I've been interested in came up for sale," he answered with a playfully affronted tone. 

_"Isn't it a little late for the stores to be open?"_ John responded after only a moment's hesitation.

"Do your weapons proprietors keep regular business hours, Mr. Reese? This is not an item found on the wholesale racks. One engages a private broker for these matters."

_"Sounds very civilized. Will Bear find it to his taste?"_

Harold shuddered, thinking of the Asimov he still hadn't replaced, and cast a stern eye at the Malinois. As if he knew what they were discussing, Bear chose that moment to look up and lick his chops.

"He would not. It's a moot point at any rate. The seller apparently changed his mind at the last minute. The broker was most apologetic. Since we were near Floral Park, I decided to spend the night at our safe-house there. It's been a while since I checked on it. As Bear missed his run with you this morning, he and I are stretching our legs for the last eight blocks or so."

Finch's phone suddenly buzzed with an alert. The Machine. He pulled the phone from his pocket and silenced it.

_"Duty calls?"_

He sighed. "Yes." 

Harold stopped, Bear coming to alert and moving to stand next to him. He tapped a number into his phone. Within a few seconds, The Machine's mimicry of human voice tones pealed loudly through the speaker of his cell. He turned down the volume and at the end of the message, cleared the calls from the phone's memory. 

_"Harold."_

"Hmmm...yes?" A quick mental tally of The Machine's message made him frown. 

_"I don't remember any public phone booths near the safe-house."_

Harold blinked, glanced around. "That's correct. There are none." 

_"Then how did you just get a Number from The Machine?"_

"Ah. I've been experimenting with a new application. It seemed safe to assume that at some point we would need to retrieve a number and timing would be critical, or public phones would be in short supply. As is the case now."

_"So you programmed a short-cut."_

"Well, it is a bit more complicated than _that,_ but yes, a 'short-cut' would describe it." 

_"Good thinking, Finch."_

"In theory. Although it may be a bit presumptive to assume it worked properly."

_"Which? Your application, or your Machine?"_

"The Machine never malfunctions, Mr. Reese," he answered dryly. "This is the first time I've done a live test on the app. If it's working properly, then I believe we're looking at a repeat Number."

_"A repeat? Who?"_

"I'm not certain." He stifled a yawn. "The titles and authors seem familiar. I know I’ve pulled those books before..." 

John laughed softly. _"We've worked a lot of Numbers over the last few years, Finch. I'm not going to think your mind's going just because you can't remember one."_

"I appreciate your vote of confidence on the integrity of my mental health, Mr. Reese." He sighed again. "This is going to mean a trip back to the Library. I'll have to call a cab."

_"Just head to the safe-house. I'll meet you there and drive you back into the City. I'm about 20 minutes out."_

Temptation reared its head. He should just call for a taxi. He should let John head for his loft. The man had to be exhausted. Still...

"Very well. We're only a few--" 

Harold's phone suddenly lit up and chimed with an incoming text.

**UNKNOWN CALLER: 911**

He hadn't realized he had spoken the content of the message out loud until he heard John's worried voice in his ear.

_"Harold? What's going on?"_

Adrenaline pumping, finger's tight on Bear's leash, Harold scanned his surroundings. The peaceful residential street suddenly seemed filled with danger, the ranks of towering shrubs and bushes he had admired earlier now potential hiding places for an attacker.

Bear yelped--a high-pitched bark-shriek of pain and surprise that shattered the quiet.

_"Finch!"_

John's demanding voice was nearly deafening, but Harold's attention was on the Malinois. The dog had dropped to the ground, and was making frantic, uncoordinated biting motions toward his right flank, whining in distress.

Harold slid awkwardly to one knee next to him, trying to avoid the snapping jaws and scrabbling feet.

"Easy, Bear, let me..."

_"What's wrong with him?"_

The dog's body went slack under Harold's hands.

"He's...he's hurt...not moving..."

Harold's phone slid out of his hand to clatter on the ground as he ran his hands along the dog's right flank. He froze as his fingers found a stick-like protrusion. Reese was still yelling in his ear, but he was focused on trying to identify what he was looking at. In the faint light cast by his phone all he could see was a plastic shaft with a clump of what looked like hacked off feathers at the end.

"He's been shot! Some kind of--"

Reese's urgent command cut him off. _"Get out of there!"_

"But--"

_"Harold MOVE!"_

Wide-eyed, Harold started to shove himself to his feet, only to be rocked forward as something punched hard into his upper back, his shocked grunt of pain accompanying the air driven from his lungs. Sprawled half over the dog, he tried to push himself upright, but nothing seemed to be working properly. The muscles in his arms and legs felt like jelly. Pain radiated up his spine, thumping at the base of his skull. He could hear John calling to him, but that urgent voice seemed miles away. He tried to drag in a breath to answer. The air was suddenly so thick it was like swallowing water. His head swam, vision blurred. He felt the warmth of the dog's body under his, then nothing.

*******************

"Finch, damn it, answer me!"

Foot jammed down on the accelerator, one hand on the wheel, Reese dug his phone out of his coat pocket with the other.

The line was still open, he could hear the gasping breaths slowing. 

"Hold on, Harold, I'm coming. Just hold--"

Their connection cut out. He tapped his earpiece to reconnect. The call went straight to voice mail. He hit redial on his phone. Voicemail again. He scrolled to his apps, calling up the program for the tracker he had hidden on Harold's glasses. No signal. He shifted to the GPS tracker installed on Bear's collar. 

On, and stationary. He had a location, but he was still over 15 minutes away. Damn it, he needed someone there now.

Reese called Shaw. She answered on the second ring.

"Finch is down," he barked without preamble. "I've got a location on Bear's GPS."

_"Send it."_

He was already routing the data to her phone. Heard her hiss in displeasure.

_"I'll borrow a car. Twenty minutes, maybe less."_

A click in his ear and she was gone. His stomach clenched. She wasn't any closer than he was. Who else?

He hit the speed dial for Fusco's cell.

"Where are you?" he demanded the moment the call went through.

_"Ridgewood. Just about to jump on the 495. Headed home. I got a day job, remember?"_

Fusco was closer. Maybe ten minutes away.

"I’m sending you an address. Get there."

_"Now, wait a--"_

"Just GET there, Lionel," he snarled and cut off the call. 

Reese dodged in and around traffic, trying to make up time that was already spent, replaying the last few minutes of the conversation with his partner.

Whoever had gotten to Harold had come out of left field. Finch had sounded tired, but relaxed. Despite that one pensive moment during their bantering, he'd been in good spirits. Years of hiding had left the man with excellent instincts. If there had been any indication of trouble, he never would have chanced the late night walk to the safe-house.

'9-1-1'--sent directly to Harold's phone right after the alert that there were new Numbers. Had The Machine tried to warn Finch that he was in danger? 

Reese gunned the car through another red light, trying to recall the neighborhood around the safe-house. Quiet street, townhouses, many with home security systems--maybe something Fusco could access. 

Bear had gone down first. Shot. With what? John searched his memory, but couldn't remember hearing a gunshot over the line, and even a silenced weapon had a distinct 'cough' that he was sure he would have recognized. Tranquilizer dart, maybe? But both the dog and Harold had dropped fast. A trank usually took several minutes to take effect. 

Bear had been a diversion. Harold had been too preoccupied with the dog to consider his own safety. 

Who was behind it? John's mind spun through the list: Vigilance, Decima, Control and her minions--anyone with an itch to get their hands on The Machine or its creator.

Or it could be an enemy closer to home. They'd ruined the plans of some very powerful men over the years. One of them might be looking for revenge.

He checked the dog's GPS tracker. The locator was still reading steady at the same location. He tried Harold's number again with the same frustrating result.

Reese resolutely avoided thinking of Finch's gasping breaths before they were cut off.

He couldn't lose him. Harold had to be alive.

He floored the accelerator going around the next corner. Almost there.

**********


	2. Chapter 2

Reese braked to a hard stop. The headlights of Fusco's unmarked squad car lit up the area where the detective crouched next to the Malinois. John grabbed a heavy-duty flashlight from under the seat, sweeping the beam left and right as he hurried to join him.

There was no sign of Finch. No pool of blood on the pavement.

The lack of evidence was almost a relief. Whoever had attacked Harold wanted him alive. That meant they had a chance to get him back.

And John _would_ get him back. No matter what it took.

Reese knelt down next to Bear, laying a hand on his shoulder. "Not your fault, boy," he murmured, grateful to feel the dog's chest rising and falling in a slow, but regular pattern. There was only a trickle of drying blood on his right flank, the wound too small for a bullet. Before he could even ask, Fusco handed him the projectile that had taken the dog down.

John examined the dart. It was basically a syringe containing an immobilizing drug, a needle to deliver the payload, stabilized by a tuft of fibers on one end. The collared needle on the dart had a barbed ring which kept the projectile in place once it made contact with the target and guaranteed that the full dose of drug was delivered. It could be fired from a specialized hand-gun or rifle. Range was an issue, but the ordnance was very quiet.

"Is this the only one you found?" 

"Yeah, it was stuck in his back leg when I got here. I took it out."

Reese shot the detective a quelling look.

"Carefully," Fusco hurriedly assured him. "Look, what's going on? What's he doing out here alone?"

John didn't have time for foolish questions. He swept his arm outward, the encompassing gesture indicating both sides of the residential street. "Most of these places have surveillance or home security. We need to know which companies. I need to see any footage they might have."

"What? You want me to go pounding on doors in the middle of the night just because your dog got--"

Reese's anger and frustration flared. He grabbed Fusco by the lapels of his jacket, pulled him upright and then thrust him a few feet away.

"He wasn't here alone," John hissed.

Fusco caught his balance, eyes narrowing, face a mask of disbelief as he finally figured it out. ''Glasses'? You sure?"

John shot him another hard look. 

"Okay...okay." He nodded toward his car. "Let me see if I can pull a favor from the local PD. Chances are they've got a list of security firms servicing this area." 

Reese grunted an acknowledgement. While Fusco hustled back to his squad and got on the radio to dispatch, John remained near Bear, sweeping the flashlight in a slow arc across the pavement, searching for anything that might provide a clue. 

Nothing: no other darts, no trace of Harold's earpiece, phone or glasses; no sign of tracks that they might use to determine what kind of vehicle had been used; nothing that suggested how many had been in on it.

It was as if Finch had vanished into thin air. 

Reese clamped down on the surge of fear accompanying that thought. The only reality he was going to embrace was one where Harold was alive.

Finch was a survivor, one of the most stubborn men John had ever met. And one of the bravest. He might have been snatched up like easy prey, but whoever had taken him would have their hands full when he was awake and in full possession of his brilliant, devious mind. Harold wouldn't give away anything that would put The Machine, their work, or any of them in danger, but he could stall, misdirect, buy time. If his captors were foolish enough to put him in front of a computer or a phone--hell, anything electronic--Finch would find a way to get him a message. He might not have expected John would come for him when Root had taken him the first time, but he knew better now. 

"Just do what you need to do to stay alive and in one piece, Harold," Reese murmured. "We'll get you back."

There was a squeal of tires from a block or more away. Moments later, a sleek black Camero pulled in next to Reese's sedan. Shaw left the car idling and strode toward him. At any other time he would have teased her about her taste in 'borrowed' vehicles, but now he was simply thankful she had chosen to hot-wire something with a lot of power under the hood.

She went down on her knees next to Bear, lifting his head slightly to check his eyes and gums. She made a low sound that Reese interpreted as approval, then laid her head on the dog's chest behind his right leg.

"Hard to tell, but breathing seems good, heart's slow but steady," she reported, straightening up. "We need to get him to a vet, though. Any idea--"

Reese handed her the dart.

She scowled and laid the projectile along the length of her open hand. "Rifle's more accurate with a dart this size." She looked up at Reese who nodded in agreement as she handed it back to him. "Max range, 225 feet, probably less than that for an optimal shot under these conditions." She stroked Bear once, then rose to her feet. "Any chance you've got a tracker on Finch?"

"His glasses. But I'm not getting anything. His phone's not registering either."

She nodded. "I'll do a sweep."

"Finch would have been coming from that direction," Reese nodded to his left. "He said he was walking the last eight blocks." He turned and called out to Fusco. "We need to know which taxi companies dropped fares in the area in the last hour."

Cell phone cradled against his shoulder, Fusco waved a hand in acknowledgement then returned to writing in a notebook resting on the hood of his car.

Shaw's gaze shifted in the direction of the safe-house which was roughly three blocks away, then looked down at Reese. "Why have the cab drop him so far out?"

Reese stared down at the dog, guilt chewing a hole in his stomach. "Bear didn't get his run this morning," he said softly. 

***************************

With Shaw scouting for clues and Fusco still gathering information, John went back to his car and grabbed the blanket off the back seat. Finch had packed a care package of comfort foods, beverages, and a warm blanket for the trip to their Number's home. The teen had looked closer to five than fifteen snuggled into the blanket's soft folds, but very safe and secure. 

Reese wished it was Harold's shoulders he was going to be wrapping the blanket around, that he could cocoon his partner in comfort and safety. Protect him. That was his job. Finch would argue, insist that John's responsibility was to the Numbers, that he was more than capable of caring for himself. That he didn't need protection. 

Finches weren't an endangered species, after all. 

But Harold was. He was unique. Irreplaceable. At least in Reese's universe. 

John tucked the luxurious throw around the injured dog, and checked the Malinois for any changes, but his condition appeared to be the same. 

He made a call to one of the veterinarians they had lined up for emergencies. Within minutes he had a referral to a one a few miles away. He called their emergency number again, but all he got was the standard recording listing a phone number he already knew wasn't being answered. Harold's phone was still going straight to voicemail.

Shaw stalked back, her expression stormy. 

"These people should fire their security companies," she complained, waving at the houses on the street in irritation. "Or at least learn to use a hedge trimmer. I found a half-dozen places where a shooter could set up and wait, and not be noticed. Or if they were careful and stayed downwind, someone could have used the bushes for cover and trailed behind until an opportunity presented itself." She shook her head in disgust. "Nothing that helps us."

Reese didn't bother to reply. Shaw was right. This quiet street was the perfect spot for an ambush.

"Give me a hand." He shifted Bear's lax body so he could get the blanket around him. Between the two of them they quickly had the dog cradled in the throw and used it like a sling to shift him to the back seat of John's car.

The need to move, to DO something, was eating at Reese. "Lionel!"

Fusco's 'one minute' gesture did nothing for John's crumbling patience.

With a low growl he started to stalk toward the detective, but Shaw flattened a hand on his chest and gave him a shove backward. Before he could retaliate she ordered, "Walk me through it."

"We were on the phone. Bear got hit, Finch went down," he answered tersely. "We don't have time--"

"Make time." Her expression softened a bit. "There are a lot of people who'd like to get their hands on Finch. We need a direction to pursue if we're going to get him back. Give me the details. Why was he here? Who knew he would be here?"

Reese forced his anger back to a simmer. "I called him on the way back from Connecticut. I'd dropped off our Number. He was already here. Said he stayed late at the Library to deal with a virus in his computers. Some amateur hacker."

"Worth following up?"

"Maybe...although it sounded like he had already handled it."

"Okay, low on the list. What else?"

"He had an appointment with a rare book broker. Didn't say who he met with, or where, other than it put him near Floral Park, so he decided to spend the night at the safe-house."

"You could buy your own island with what he's paid for some of those books he collects," she muttered.

"He's not out anything tonight. The sale didn't go through." Reese hesitated, catching the possible importance of that. "The seller backed out at the last minute."

Shaw looked grim. Reese figured she was contemplating the same suspects he had tallied earlier. 

"It might not be one our big players behind this," she murmured. "Although they're all capable of this kind of a snatch. It could be somebody local running a con...a honey pot or bait and switch, except the switch becomes a kidnap for ransom. The book could have been the bait. Find a rich guy, lure him out of his safe zone with something he can't resist. Follow him after the transaction fell through and gather up the target. They don't even need to contact anyone. He can buy his own way out by giving them access to his accounts."

Her logic made sense. It _could_ be all about money. Finch might have been targeted not because of _who_ he was, but because he--or at least one of his aliases--appeared to have money to burn. Still, something about the scenario didn't feel quite right. John wasn't sure if it was his own emotions influencing his reactions, but he couldn't get past the feeling that this was personal. 

The reality of just how much they depended on Harold's expertise and ability to multi-task hit him hard. If this was a Number they were working, Finch would already be tapping into existing surveillance, building a picture of events and possible connections which would at least narrow down the options and give them a direction to pursue. 

Without Harold to snag information out of the ether, they were going have to scrape for every clue. They could do it, but it would take time, which was a precious commodity at the moment.

"We can't afford to get focused on one possibility and miss the big picture," Reese rasped, frustrated. "But the book broker might be our best lead."

"What broker?" Fusco asked as he joined them. "You want me looking into something else, I'm gonna need to file some kind of report. I'm hitting the wall on cooperation with the locals. 'Professional courtesy' only goes so far without a case to hang it on."

"Just give us what you've got," John rumbled.

Fusco handed him several pages torn from his notebook. "I've got calls in to the two cab companies that come out here. Should hear back from them in a couple minutes. Dispatchers are checking the logbooks now and contacting the drivers. There are a half-dozen security firms that service this area. Getting a look at any feeds they've got is gonna be tricky. They're not gonna give up anything without a warrant."

"We won't need a warrant," Shaw interrupted. She glanced at John. "I'm assuming there's at least a laptop at the safe-house."

Reese nodded and handed her Fusco's notes. He climbed behind the wheel of his sedan, rolling down the window as he started the vehicle. "I'll see what the vet can tell us about the drug they used. Might give us another lead." He tapped his earpiece, a clear message to 'stay in touch', then pulled out, tires screeching as he took off.

***********

Shaw stalked over to the Camero, Fusco on her heels. 

"You gonna tell me what's going on, since Wonderboy's playing his cards closer to the vest than usual?"

Shaw hesitated, wondering how far they should read him in. Protocol dictated she just treat him like any other asset--get what she needed out of him to get the job done and no more.

"I want to help," he pressed. "I know Finch has secrets way above my pay grade. I don't need to know them. But I need something to work with here."

That decided it. "Follow me, Lionel. Close your eyes while I dump this car, then I'll tell you what I can." 

**********

Reese forced himself into a mission mind-set as he sped through the quiet streets to the emergency veterinary clinic he'd been directed to. One step at time, one task at a time. That's how he would get through this and bring Harold home.

Once he _got_ him home, they were going to quit this dance they were doing. The man owned his heart. It was time for them to be together, to admit to what they both felt. 

As he pulled into a space in front of the clinic, a huge bruiser of a man came out the front doors and hurried to the sedan's rear passenger door. He looked like he would be at home as the front door bouncer at a club, heavily muscled biceps straining at the arms of his technician's scrubs, but he was surprising gentle as he reached in to start sliding the blanket-wrapped dog off the seat.

"Doc's inside getting set up. She already got the basics from your regular vet," the man explained. 

Together they carried Bear inside the clinic, setting him down on a long rectangular floor scale to get his weight. Moments later they were lifting him again, pushing through a set of swinging doors to a large, fully equipped treatment room. A couple of dogs in cages on the far end barked at the intrusion, but settled quickly.

The veterinarian, Dr. LeeAnn Mills, was a woman in her 30s, tiny in comparison to her technician, but obviously the one in charge. She nodded vaguely to Reese, but her attention was fixed on the Malinois.

"Let's get him on the table on his left side," she ordered.

They lifted the dog to the exam table, the tech taking Bear's unwieldy weight while the vet slid the blanket out from under him.

John took a step back and watched her work. She was quick, efficient, and all business as she checked the dog's vitals. Reese pulled the dart out of his pocket and laid it on the far end of the table. The vet scowled when she saw it. She dropped the stethoscope off her ears to hang around her neck, pulled a penlight out of her pocket and checked Bear's eyes again. 

"How long ago did this happen?" she asked tersely.

Reese didn't have to check his watch. There had been a clock in his head marking each passing minute since Harold's gasp of pain. "47 minutes ago."

"How quickly did he go down?"

"Faster than he should have."

Her eyes narrowed. "I'll check for a paralytic then, as well as a sedative." 

She snagged some disposable gloves from a box and pulled them on while the tech deftly shaved a 3" long strip of hair off both of the Malinois' front legs.

"We'll get blood and start some fluids," she explained. She inserted a needle for the blood draw while the tech set up an IV with a clear bag of what John assumed was the canine equivalent of saline. She drew two vials of blood, then picked up the dart and examined it closely. "Might be a trace sample left that we can get out of this. We'll see."

She handed the filled vials and the dart to her assistant, who left through another set of swinging doors.

The vet draped a towel over the dog's ears and eyes, gently stroked his muzzle, then looked up, giving Reese her full attention for the first time.

"We handle a lot of emergency calls, so we've got our own lab. We'll get a handle on what's in his system pretty quickly."

Reese nodded. "I need to know what drug it was as soon as possible. It might give me a lead on who did this."

"Well I hope you catch them," she said, her anger clear. "Tranquilizer use on any animal is risky. The wrong dose, the wrong drug and you get a whole host of problems."

John knew all too well what some of those 'problems' were. Shock. Heart failure. Respiratory failure. Finch might be facing the same life-threatening issues if he had been drugged, too. Some trace of his concerns must have shown in his expression, because the vet hastened to offer reassurance.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to alarm you. Your boy seems stable at the moment. We'll get him hooked up to monitor his heart and respiration. Get a urine sample. Keep him on fluids. Once we identify the drugs, we'll implement a treatment protocol.

"You haven't asked, but I think he'll be all right. Whatever sedative they used seems to be geared to an animal his size and weight. The biggest issue in recovery is the affect the drugs have on the respiratory system. We'll monitor for that. One of us will be with him the rest of the night."

John nodded and started to reach for his wallet, but she waved him off. "Emma told me to take good care of you," she said, referencing the vet he'd called earlier. "Bear's one of her favorites. We'll settle up when we get him back on his feet."

"Thanks." He jotted down his number and Shaw's on the chart the veterinarian had started. "Call when you have anything on the drugs that were used. Even if it's just preliminary."

Reese laid his hand on Bear's shoulder for a moment, then with a thankful nod to the doctor, he headed out to his car. 

He slid behind the wheel, cranked the vehicle to life and backed out of the stall, tires screeching as he shifted into drive and peeled out of the lot. Two blocks later he pulled over to the curb and shoved the transmission into 'Park', one of the vet's comments ringing in his ears.

_"...sedative they used seems to be geared to an animal his size and weight"._

It was highly doubtful that any details about the Malinois had been gleaned from the few doctors Finch entrusted the dog's care to, given that he had vetted them as diligently as the Secret Service scrutinized their potential agents. 

Which left observation as the means of gathering that intel. 

Close observation. 

Finch had a stalker. How they hell had they missed it? 

John's hands were shaking and his pulse was pounding in his throat. He grabbed the wheel with both hands and rode out the adrenaline surge, letting it burn through his fear and anger until all that was left was cold determination. 

Whoever was behind this was going to pay. There would be no quarter given. No second chances. 

He pulled out his phone and connected to Shaw.

*********************

_"Bear's stable for the moment. They'll get us a report on the drugs as soon as they can. What have you got on the security firms?"_

"Two have customer access links through their websites," Shaw responded, stabbing at the laptop's keyboard to pull up another window. "I'm working on getting into their systems through those. Just sent you addresses and GPS coordinates on the other four."

She heard the sound of Reese's car engine revving. He was on the move.

_"Has anyone been at the safe-house?"_

"No. Fusco and I cleared the house. There's no sign of entry." 

She declined to mention the gate padlock they had cut and the window she had broken getting in. Finch's security had been sophisticated and time wasn't something they had to waste. Fusco had wedged a board over the broken pane. She would reset the alarm before she left--or not, since she doubted either Reese or Finch would want to use this property again. 

"It doesn't look like they knew Finch's destination."

_"They've been following him. And not just tonight. At some point they got close enough to get a good estimate of Bear's weight."_

Sam didn't need any further explanation to understand the scale of the problem. "Damn." She stared at the monitor screen, not really seeing it, the medical complications of various immobilizing drugs scrolling through her head. "If they were that precise with what they used on Bear, then chances are they would have been equally careful with how they dosed Finch," she murmured. "If they tranked him, too."

_"I heard him go down, Shaw. It was fast, and it was quiet."_

Shaw didn't do emotions herself, but she wasn't oblivious to them in others. Beneath John's cold, grim tone, there was a deep well of anguish. 

"Reese, this is getting pretty complicated. Maybe the book broker doesn't have anything to do with it. Maybe we need to be looking into those other possibilities." 

Control sprang to mind immediately. She had been chillingly delighted when she'd had Harold in her grasp. Complex games of stealth were just her cup of tea, and the skill required for the take down was well within her favorite hunting dog's capabilities. 

_"I still think the book was the lure. The broker can ID the seller and that's our best lead to find whoever's behind this, unless we get lucky with the surveillance feeds. But you're right. This doesn't seem like a snatch for ransom. It feels like someone's playing a game. Taunting us. If Finch was the target, and Bear was just the distraction that kept him in the crosshairs, why go to so much trouble to make sure Bear survived? Why leave the dart behind to give us something to trace?"_

She had to admit Reese was onto something. If Control had gotten a line on Harold and sent Hersch to gather him in, he wouldn't have bothered to trank Bear--he would have used a bullet. 

"Maybe Finch isn't the ultimate target. What if he's bait? Vigilance or Decima, or someone else could be trying to draw us out into the open."

_"Does it matter?"_

"It might change how we approach this." 

It certainly broadened the field of possible perpetrators. She and Reese had made their share of enemies, both before and since joining forces with Finch. If this was a ploy to get to one of them, then they needed to be sure if one went down, the other was still free to carry out a rescue. 

Shaw heard the screech of tires as Reese took a fast corner. 

_"Getting Finch back is what's important. Someone's been watching him...has seen him out with Bear. Harold doesn't stick to any particular routine, in fact he makes it a point not to. Between his paranoia and his devious phone apps, the man's practically got eyes in the back of his head. We've all tried to tail him and lost him. And he's extremely careful about being seen anywhere near the Library. I think whoever did this, for whatever reason, had to draw Finch out because they couldn't find where he goes to roost. Somehow they found out about Harold's fondness for rare books. They set up the buy, then tailed him from the broker until they found a quiet spot to pick him up."_

"But how did they find out about the books? He'd use an alias for that kind of purchase, wouldn't he?" She could hear John practically simmering on the other end of the line as he thought through that complication. "Look, I'm not arguing with you, but the dots don't quite connect."

_"Yet."_

She grimaced. Reese at his most stubborn was a pain in the ass. However his instincts when it came to Finch were better than hers. 

"Let's hope Fusco get's lucky with the Bellerose PD, then. He's on his way there now."

_"I thought the locals weren't cooperating."_

"Call came in from one of the cab companies. They confirmed picking up a man and a large dog in the 8900 block of Moline Street in Bellerose, and dropping the fare in Floral Park. Timing sounds right. And before you ask, yes, he got the name and address of the driver so we can track him down later. Fusco's going to see if he can get the Bellerose PD to let him take a look at any Crime Center footage from the area. Said he'll tie it to the case that had him out in Ridgewood. If there's any surveillance of where the cab picked up Finch, we might catch someone on the street or in a vehicle that we can match to the feeds from where he was attacked." 

_"What's in the area where Finch caught the cab?"_

She glanced at the map of the neighborhood displayed on the laptop's screen. "Satellite map shows mostly residential...looks like fairly high end condos and apartments. The broker might work out of his or her home. That's going be like finding a needle in a haystack unless we can narrow it down some."

_"And Finch probably walked a couple of blocks before he hailed the cab, so that widens out our target area even further."_

"Well, we're not going to get anywhere finding the broker on a basic browser search. I pulled up 177,000 results for rare book dealers in the New York area." 

_"The broker's got to be someone Finch has worked with before. He wouldn't have visited someone he didn't know at their home late at night."_

Before she could comment that Harold's own secretiveness was working against them, she noted a sudden lack of engine noise and the rustle of clothing.

_"I'm at Vibrant Security. I'll have their client list shortly. Feeds after that if there's anything useful."_

The slamming of a car door didn't quite mask the sound of a pistol slide being racked. Sam smiled grimly. For as much as Harold thought of Reese as a scalpel, John knew when to bring out the guns. 

"I'll keep working on the other two. I'm almost in past the firewall for SeCure Properties."

_"Nice work, Shaw."_

"Cole taught me a few tricks," she smirked darkly as his end of the line went dead. 

She went back to her hacking. Her old partner _had_ taught her more than a few tricks to get past firewalls without being detected, but those took time. The direct approach was more her style anyway. She needed a hammer in the form of a virus. She scrolled down the menu of applications listed on the laptop, stopping at an innocuously named folder: _Birds of the World._

Cole had always said that the best clues were the ones hidden in plain sight. She double-clicked the icon. 

"Very nice, Finch," she murmured, studying the various programs and executable files listed. Like Reese and herself, Harold had an arsenal, and he had left her the keys. Shaw searched the list, found a program she thought sounded familiar, and in a few minutes had it chewing through the SeCure firewall. 

She left that one to run its course and called up the KeepSafe Security website. It offered homeowners the ability to log in to view their home remotely. A nice option to keep an eye on your property while you were on vacation or away at work--or to spy on a wayward spouse. She clicked on the client tab and got a login screen asking for a property address. She checked the map of the neighborhood and started typing in addresses from the block where Finch had been attacked. On the eighth try she got a prompt for a password. Pulling up the local phone book listings, she searched by address and came up with the owners' names: Sue and Tom Richardson.

There had been a wooden plaque bearing that name mounted next to the front door on one of the houses within the perimeter she had searched earlier. The bushes around that house and yard had been thick, almost to the point of overgrown. Shaw clicked back to the KeepSafe website, hoping the owners were as lax with their online security as they were with their hedge trimming. 

At the password prompt, she typed in RICHARDSONHOME.

Seconds later she had access to the live feeds for the house. The exterior camera was on a slow pan timer so that it gave a wide view of the property across the front yard and walkway to the street. The Richardson's house was almost directly across from the site of the attack. Depending on where he had hidden, the feed probably wouldn't reveal the shooter, but whatever vehicle had been used to haul Finch away should have been caught on camera. If they were really lucky, they might get a face or two to chase down in addition to a license plate.

There were several options for reviewing time-stamped footage in 4-hour increments. She chose the most recent and fast-forwarded until she saw two familiar figures enter the frame, then let it run real time.

For the first few minutes, both Finch and Bear seemed relaxed, seemingly unaware of the impending attack. She watched Finch respond via his earpiece to the call that Reese had mentioned, then a few minutes later pull his phone from his pocket. Sam froze the image and frowned. Reese hadn't said anything about any other phone calls. She started the video again, watched Harold's demeanor change abruptly after receiving what must have been a text. 

Suddenly Bear was on the ground, Finch kneeling next to him, back to the camera. She caught her breath as she watched him start to rise, then fall forward. 

She checked the time stamp. Less than 30 seconds later, a figure entered the frame, headed directly to where Finch and Bear were sprawled on the pavement. She cursed. Her only view of the shooter was from the rear. He was carrying a dart rifle, dressed in dark clothing, stocking cap pulled down to cover his hair. 

He bent over Finch, but she couldn't see what he was doing. A dark cargo van entered the frame from the right, pulling to a stop directly across from the camera, obscuring her view. She froze the image, studying the van. No windows in the back, the driver's window dark. Frustrated, she started the feed again. The van rocked slightly--possibly someone exiting a sliding door on the opposite side of the vehicle. Moments later the van rocked again. Seconds later it sped out of frame, moving north. 

She stabbed her finger on a key to freeze the image. The camera angle gave her only a guess at the last digit on the plate. It might be a '7', but could easily have been a 'T'. She fast-forwarded the feed, hoping there might be a tail car, but five more minutes of video sped by before a small sedan cruised past, the occupants a young couple with a child in a car seat in the rear. 

She banged a fist on the top of the desk. Damn it, they had nothing!

Taking a deep breath, she hit a few keys, downloading the clip for later review. 

Her earpiece clicked with an incoming call. Reese.

"You didn't tell me Finch was on his phone before the attack," she growled. 

_"You've got something?"_

"Tell me about the calls," she insisted. Shaw knew she was pissing him off, but she didn't care. The phone calls and who made them could be just as important as their phantom bookseller. 

_"He got an alert from The Machine. He tried out some new app he's been developing and got codes for a new Number. He thought it was familiar, maybe a repeat, but he said he needed to go back to the Library to be sure. Then he got a text. 9-1-1 from an unknown caller."_

"Someone warned him?"

_"Or some 'thing'"._

Crap. This was a cluster-fuck if Harold's Machine was in the mix. 

"I've got video on the attack, but it's pretty worthless," she stated, getting down to business. "House across the street from where he went down. Shooter's male, about six feet, 200-220 pounds, dressed in dark clothes, stocking cap. Visible only from the back. Carrying a long-bore dart rifle. Feed's grainy, but I'll see what I can do to identify it. A dark cargo van came from the south, headed north after the pick-up. Could be black or gray. Tinted driver's window, so no joy there. It must have a passenger-side entry door because no one came out of the back, and the driver never budged. The van was between the camera and Finch's position. They were in place for barely two minutes."

_"Professional snatch. Plate?"_

"Not from this angle."

_"Then we need another one."_

Shaw rolled her eyes. As if she didn't know that. She checked on the SeCure Properties hack still in progress. "I'm nearly through the firewall on the other site. What did you get from Vibrant?"

_"They were cooperative. I'm sending client lists and login for their servers to you now."_

Despite the circumstances she grinned, envisioning some under-paid security guard falling over himself to gather up whatever the Angel of Death wanted. 

_"Any word from Fusco?"_

"Not--" a click in her earpiece and suddenly the detective was on the line with them.

_"I've got something. The location where our friend was last sighted is a major intersection. They've got cameras on all four approaches, running 24/7. Thing is, there's not a good spot to do any private viewing here."_

Fusco's voice was nearly masked by the white noise of other chatter in the background. Bellerose's Live Crime Center was either an active place tonight, or a very small room. There was no comment from Reese, but she could imagine teeth grinding in frustration. 

Shaw released an exasperated breath. She hated being stuck in front of a computer, but Reese wasn't likely to pull himself off the street, and there were still three security firms to visit that could have footage that they might need. 

"Bring it back to the safe-house, Fusco." She could hear him asking someone to burn him a DVD just before he clicked off. "I'll start reviewing the feeds when he gets here," she told Reese. "I'll narrow it down, but then you're going to need to take a look. You've got more history with Harold than I do. You might see something I would miss." 

_"We're burning time we don't have,"_ John snarled. _"Finch--"_

"Is probably still unconscious." There were drugs that could be used to counter whatever Harold had been sedated with, but it was less risky to let the subject come out of it on their own. That bought them a little breathing space. Hopefully.

There was silence on the other end of the line for a few moments. God, she hated being the voice of reason. 

_"I'm headed to QuadraTech." _/__

__There was a click and he was gone. Shaw tapped the window on the monitor that she was using to monitor the GPS in his phone. The red dot was moving fast, headed east. She nodded in approval. He was hitting the security firms closest to the safe-house first, staying within range so he could make it to their make-shift headquarters with minimal loss of time when he was needed. Reese was angry, but his head was in the game._ _

__Determined to do her part, she connected her phone to the laptop and started downloading the files he had sent._ _

__********************_ _


	3. Chapter 3

Reese parked in the small lot directly in front of the squat building that held QuadraTech's local offices. He gave himself a minute to get his head on straight before sliding out from behind the wheel. Shaw had been right to call him on his less than thorough briefing. Fear had made him sloppy. He needed to be sharper, at the top of his game, but the sense that Harold was slipping farther from their reach with every minute that passed refused to leave him. Finch had been missing for just over two hours. Depending on who had taken him, he could be on a plane to an underground bunker half-way across the country by now. 

He flashed Detective Stills' badge at the camera on the building's front door. As it clicked open, his phone vibrated. It was an incoming call from the vet. He let it go to voicemail and walked up to the glass-fronted booth where an older security guard waited.

Reese slid the badge through the counter-level opening in the glass. As the guard leaned forward, John reached in and grabbed his tie, jerking the man's head down to crack hard against the countertop. The guard's body slumped bonelessly. Reese released his hold and let the man slide out of sight behind the counter. 

The door to the back area was locked, but there were no other surveillance devices in sight. Reese pulled his Sig and shot out the lock. Moving quickly, he checked the first guard, removing the man's weapon. The front office was small, just a desk and the reception counter. Another door led to a short hallway with three other closed doors leading off it. The first opened to a modest-sized storage closet holding cleaning and office supplies. He went back for the guard, depositing the unconscious man inside. 

There was no sound emanating from behind the next door, but the third one held promise. Leading with his Sig, he shoved it open. 

The only occupant, a baby-faced kid in a security guard uniform looked up, startled, dropping his bulky headset to the desk in front of him. A quick glance revealed the young man wasn't armed. 

Reese knew he could find the information he wanted himself, but having the guard pull it would save time. He lowered the gun toward the floor.

"They probably didn't cover this situation in your orientation, kid," he said, his tone soft and reasonable. "No need to panic. I just want some information. Client lists for Floral Park." 

The young man didn't move, just stared at him wide-eyed. 

Reese brought the gun back up to underscore his terse command. "Client lists. Floral Park."

The kid turned to his keyboard, hands shaking. John moved to look over his shoulder, studying the screen as the young man called up a database. Reese pulled a flash drive out of his pocket, offered it to him. The guard stared at it like it was a live grenade. John reached forward and inserted the device into the CPU tower, then tapped the kid on his shoulder with the pistol. 

He quickly copied the files. 

"Good. Surveillance feeds?"

"S-stored on the main servers at corporate." 

"Access them."

"I-I'm not s-supp--"

John nudged him with the muzzle of the Sig. 

The guard swallowed hard enough that his whole body vibrated. He called up a login screen. John slid the gun into the holster at his back and closed one hand firmly over the young man's shoulder. The kid's hands hovered over the keyboard.

"Password?"

"GREEN5462." 

"Type it in."

The guard did as ordered. As soon as Reese was sure the connection had been made, he murmured a soft, "thanks" in the kid's ear and quickly wrapped his right arm around the slender neck, applying pressure to the carotid artery with his forearm. The young man scrabbled frantically, fingers twisting into the fabric of John's coat, but he quickly succumbed to the sleeper hold.

John propped him up in the chair and wheeled it out of the way, grabbing the flash drive. In minutes the lists and server login information were on their way to Shaw. 

He took a moment to check the young guard. "You should find a new line of work, kid," he murmured, patting him on the chest. Reese headed out to his car, calling up his voicemail.

The vet's message was crisply delivered. Bear was awake with no significant complications. Dr. Mills rattled off several tongue-twisting drug names. They meant nothing to him until she elaborated that they were specifically designed for animal use, but not something most small clinics would have on hand. He forwarded the message to Shaw.

He pulled out onto the street, the GPS coordinates of the next closest security firm flashing on his phone. He kept an eye out for a public phone booth. The Machine might offer them another lead. 

A mile and half later he caught sight of a small strip mall. He pulled into the parking lot, scanning the storefronts--dry cleaner, pharmacy, liquor store. All were closed at this time of night, but both the pharmacy and the liquor store had signs posted indicating active surveillance running on the premises. Mounted on the brick wall near the pharmacy entrance was a public telephone. He slid out of the car and strode toward it.

"I know you're watching," John said quietly, addressing his comments to the air, certain The Machine would pick them up. "I need your help again."

He came to a halt in front of the phone and glanced up at the tiny security camera tucked into a corner of the building's facade. "You knew he was in danger. I think you tried to warn him. I can get him back."

The phone remained stubbornly silent. 

"He's important," Reese argued. "Neither of us would be here if it weren't for him. He created you. He saved me. You found a way to help me before. Do it again."

Nothing. John closed his eyes, striving for patience. He had negotiated with The Machine in the past, but that was before it was a free...entity? Consciousness? What was it now? What persuasion would convince it to give up its secrets?

"He freed you," Reese murmured. "Kept them from controlling you. Damaging you. But _he_ could be damaged. Whoever took him, _will_ hurt him, to get what they want. I think he programmed you not to care about him, protect him, but you're trying to get around those instructions. Help me. I need him. Give me something. Anything."

The phone rang, the shrill 'brrinngg' jolting Reese forward to grab the handset. The Machine's pseudo voice warbled a the codes for a Number before the connection cut out. 

Reese committed the information to memory. A name would have been more helpful, but he'd take what he could get. It was another possible lead to either the person responsible for Harold's abduction, or someone who could help find him. If Finch had been right in speculating it was a repeat Number, it didn't rule out involvement by Decima, Vigilance, or Control, but it shifted those dangerous entities toward the bottom of the suspect list. That still left a long list of perps and victims to sort through.

Stung and angry that someone they had helped might be involved, he slipped behind the wheel of his car. He had just shifted into gear when his phone chimed with a text from Shaw calling him back to the safe-house. 

*************

Fusco drove past the front of the safe-house, only a glimmer of brightness from the left front window suggesting anyone was still inside. He turned right at the corner and right again into the alley which ran the length of the block, parking behind the townhouse. The rear of the property was bordered with a tall fence, the gate hanging loose without the padlock he had cut open earlier. 

Grabbing his laptop from the passenger seat, he levered himself out of the car. He closed the gate behind him and trudged up the short path to the back door, half expecting the flood lights to come on. They didn't, so he made the trip in the dark, stumbling over a raised edge of the concrete walkway. Cursing softly, he grabbed the wrought iron railing with his free hand and lugged himself up the three concrete steps. When he found the door locked, he sent Shaw a text to let her know he was there.

He glanced around impatiently, shifting from sore foot to sore foot. He had already put in a 14-hour day before getting the call from Reese, and he had added nearly three more hours of frantic running around. Not that Finch wasn't worth it. He had come to respect the enigmatic man with his stiff neck, fussy wardrobe, and seemingly limitless resources. Despite the danger they'd put him since he'd been sucked into their strange crusade, he owed Finch and Company his life. And his son's life. Shaw and Reese had the knack of showing up just when the shit was going to hit the fan. Lionel knew that was because Finch was perched somewhere in front of a computer, whispering in their ears to get them there in time. 

They'd also bought him a second chance at being a good cop. When HR had gone down, he should have been looking at jail time. He had a lot of black marks and red stains on his personal ledger. Instead, he got a promotion and respect. Finch had to have pulled some electronic strings to deflect attention away from him for that to happen. Every time his son looked at him with that gleam of pride in his eyes, Lionel knew he had been saved. 

And guys from Brooklyn paid their debts.

He shook his head, reviewing the events of the last few hours. Given that the man seemed to delight in leaving his messes for Lionel to clean up, he had expected to discover at least one bleeding body at the address Reese had sent him. Finding the dog there with a tranquilizer dart in him had been a shock. He had recognized Bear immediately, but the quiet residential neighborhood was so far from the active streets of Midtown and Manhattan, which he normally thought of as Finch's stomping grounds, that he hadn't even considered that the older man might have been there until Reese had shaken the point home. To find out Finch was missing, possibly the victim of an elaborate con, or worse, was still hard to believe. 

He patted the pocket that held the DVD from the Bellerose PD. There had to be something on it that would point them in the right direction. He had no desire to see Reese in his berserker mind-set. The City wouldn't survive it. 

He turned and faced the door, lifting one hand to pound on the wooden panel, when it suddenly swung open. Shaw stood there, backlit by the glow of LED readouts from the kitchen appliances, a half-eaten granola bar fisted in one hand. 

"Thought maybe you were gonna make me crawl through the window," he remarked. He pulled out the DVD and handed it off as he stepped inside. 

Stuffing the last of the granola bar in her mouth, she grunted and waved him toward the full coffee maker on the counter before heading out of the kitchen toward the front of the house. 

He set his laptop down on the kitchen table, grabbed a mug from a cupboard and filled it. Riding out the first jolt as the strong brew hit his empty stomach, he leaned back against the counter, rolling his shoulders to ease some of the built-up tension, taking in the softly gleaming surfaces and high-end appliances. 

Since he'd been invited farther into Reese and Finch's inner circle, he had been to several of the pair's safe-houses. Like all of them, this townhouse was tastefully furnished, but offered nothing that gave away the identity of its occupants or owner. The kitchen looked like it had been prepped for a magazine photo shoot. He knew from his earlier walk-through that the upstairs with its three bedrooms and full bath was just as pristine. 

He gulped down the rest of his coffee and refilled his cup. Snagging his laptop off the table, he trailed after Shaw, passing the dark, modestly sized dining room and living room as he made his way to the study. He wondered, as he often had in the past, just how Finch was really worth, that he could afford to own properties like this scattered all over the five boroughs.

Lionel frowned, knowing that same wealth might have made him a target. 

The door to the study was ajar, the sliver of light a beacon to Shaw's location. Lionel pushed the door open, shutting it behind him as he stepped inside in order to keep the light from spilling out and giving away their presence. 

Shaw was seated at a large, hutch-style wooden desk, a slim laptop in front of her, screen flickering as she flipped from one window to another. There was an inch-high stack of papers at one elbow. A bottle of water and a box of the same granola bars she'd been chomping on when he arrived sat to her right. A pile of crumbled wrappers indicated she had worked her way through most of the box's contents already. 

More papers littered the rectangular coffee table in front of a long upholstered sofa. He took a quick glance as he set his laptop on the table--spreadsheets of addresses, blow-ups of street maps, pages of drug searches. 

Shaw shoved her chair backward, muttering something under her breath. She tapped on the screen of her phone and tossed it aside. He heard the distinctive hum and windup of a printer as she bent to retrieve several more pages from the machine tucked into the lower recesses of the desk. Frowning, she sorted through the print-outs, dropping a couple in the pile to her left and carrying the rest across the room. 

He followed her over to a tall double-doored cabinet, book-ended by two upholstered armchairs. It probably housed a large wide-screen television, but at the moment it was doing duty as an evidence board. 

She and Reese had obviously gotten beyond the reception desk at several of the security firms on the list he had given them. Most of the images taped to the cabinet were screen captures from surveillance feeds showing views of the street where he had found the dog. There were shots of a dark cargo van, all from slightly different angles, none showing a legible front or rear plate. 

The grouping Shaw was currently adding to were pictures of a dart rifle. In addition to some enlarged screen captures, there were pages from a manufacturer's website showing close-ups of what appeared to be the same weapon, and a list of gun dealers selling the model in New York State. 

Lined up across the top in three rows were images showing the actual attack. Fusco slid his glasses from his inside jacket pocket and stepped closer to study them. He had considered checking the records for Bunko and Robbery to see if there were any similar cases to the 'bait and switch' Shaw had suggested earlier. It might still be worth a look, although kidnapping was the purview of the FBI and he knew better than to disturb that nest of hornets with even a hint that something was up. 

The pictures showed a very professional snatch, and the longer he looked at them, the less it felt like this was some elaborate con with a kidnapping twist. He had a sinking suspicion that this involved some of those secrets he hadn't wanted to know about. Setting that uneasy feeling aside, he forced himself to think like a detective and examined the pictures strictly for the evidence they revealed. 

Four perps: one shooter, and at least two in the van plus the driver; maybe one more in the front passenger seat, based on some odd shadows in one of the shots. Only the two in the rear had left the van through a sliding side door. All in dark clothing, the shooter was the only one out of the van not wearing a ski-mask, and he'd had the presence of mind to keep his head down so that none of the views revealed a good image of his face.

The shooter had gone directly to Finch, removing the older man's earpiece and glasses, and gathering up his cell phone. Lionel grimaced as he studied the images of Finch being loaded inside the vehicle, anticipating Reese's reaction to the less than careful handling of his partner. 

He leaned closer to examine the images Shaw had gathered on the van. In one of the front-end shots, he thought he could make out an emblem in the grill. It might give them a lead. He could check stolen vehicle reports and get a DMV search on the make and model, although that style of cargo van was pretty common and would probably generate a list in the thousands. 

"That looks like a Ford van, maybe three or four model years old," he murmured. "Have you--"

"Have I broken into the DMV servers, yet?" she snarled. "No. I'm not Finch. I can't--"

She stopped, eyes closed tightly, mouth pressed into a firm line. He understood her frustrated reaction. He had witnessed Finch practically pulling information out of the air, researching a dozen leads at a time. The man made it look a hell of a lot easier than it actually was. Shaw was usually the one aimed at the target, not assembling the puzzle pieces, and it was obvious she preferred it that way. He waited silently as she took a couple of deep breaths. When she opened her eyes and looked at him, she was composed and in control again. 

"No, Lionel, I haven't had a chance."

"I'll make a couple calls, see if I get someone on it back at the station," he offered. She raised an eyebrow and he quickly reassured her. "I know. Finch doesn't exist. I'll just say I got a tip the van might be a vehicle involved in one of my open cases."

She nodded. "I need to run a check on the drugs that were used on Bear. The vet was able to ID most of the cocktail. Then I could use your help sorting through the Bellerose footage. I'll take the north-south approaches, if you can look at east-west." She strode to the desk, ejected the DVD from her laptop and crossed back to hand it to him. "I called Reese in. There's no point in trying track down any more footage right now. These guys were too careful."

Shaking her head, she went back to the desk, grabbed her bottle of water and drained it. Waggling the empty in his direction, she moved toward the door of the study. He wasn't sure if she actually wanted a new bottle, or just needed some space.

"Sameen," he said quietly, halting her as her fingers closed around the doorknob. She turned her head a fraction toward him. He gestured toward the evidence she had assembled. "You're doing a hell of a job."

"It'll be 'a hell of a job' only if we find him, Lionel," she answered grimly, before slipping out. 

Fusco couldn't argue with that. He had worked enough cases in his career to know that sometimes even your best wasn't good enough. With a sigh, he eyed the sofa and deemed it too comfortable-looking for the long hours of work still ahead. Setting his mug on the coffee table, he slid one of the two upholstered chairs to the table on the end nearest the desk and sank heavily into it. Pulling out his cell, he booted his laptop. Moments later, he was scanning stolen vehicle reports, while he cajoled a favor out of one of the clerks at the precinct. 

***************************


	4. Chapter 4

Entering the study, John felt a sharp pang of loss. Seeing Shaw and Fusco hunched in front of the computer monitors in Finch's normal role seemed incredibly wrong. He shook off the unsettling sensation and took a quick look at the items on the coffee table, noting a pieced-together map of the New York area and several haphazard stacks of printouts. 

The makeshift evidence board drew him across the room, just as the glass board in the Library would have. Shaw and Fusco had been busy, for which he was grateful. He felt like he had simply been spinning his wheels while the clock ticked mercilessly onward. Now, faced with the details they'd assembled, he finally felt like they might have a chance to catch up.

Grimly, he studied the images of the attack, growing colder by the moment. They hadn't been gentle with Harold. Speed of extraction had overridden any concern for the unconscious man's well-being. John winced at the sight of Finch's head dropped backward as he was hauled off the ground, knowing the stress and torque that put on the pins in his fused spine. He pulled out his phone and grimly captured a shot of Harold being man-handled into the van, determined to carry the reminder of the ill-treatment to keep his purpose front and center.

He didn't realize he had reached out to touch one of the images of Finch crumpled over Bear's body until Fusco's voice broke the study's intense quiet. 

"I've got him on the east feed."

John swiveled in his direction.

"When?" Shaw's fingers were busy on the keyboard, her screen flickering as she sped through the footage she was reviewing.

"Time stamp 23:13.07. He's about 3 blocks from the corner, heading west."

Reese moved to stand between them so he could see both laptop screens with a simple turn of the head. Fusco had backed up the recording to two minutes before the time he had called out and was slowly advancing it. 

"There." John reached forward and pointed at the first glimpse of Finch and Bear entering the frame from the right.

"He's mid-block," Fusco muttered. "There's no cross-street there."

"You said three blocks from the corner?" Shaw asked. 

John looked up and saw her zooming in on a satellite map of the area. 

He glanced back at Fusco's screen, did a quick calculation. "He came out onto the street from between the fifth and sixth buildings."

"Looks like a walkway between two apartment buildings," Shaw reported. "Leads to a shared yard and parking for those two buildings, and the two behind them." She glanced over her shoulder at Reese. "Could be our book broker lives in one of those."

"You want to go back further? See if we catch him arriving?" Fusco asked.

Reese shook his head. He felt pretty confident they had at least a relative location to search for the broker. They needed to see where and when Finch had picked up a tail. "Advance it."

Fusco let the recording run in real-time speed. John's attention was split between the pair walking toward the camera's position at the stoplight intersection, and what was happening around them. 

Traffic was light in both directions. The two blocks nearest the intersection were 'no parking' zones, but there were clusters of vehicles parked along the curbs beyond. Unfortunately the camera's field of view began to lose definition after the third block, so he could only make out vague shapes, although it seemed like one or two might be large enough to be the van that had been used for the snatch. There were only a few other pedestrians, most on the opposite side of the street from Harold and Bear, where a coffee shop and bakery had been doing some late-night business.

When Finch was about a block and half from the main intersection, a young woman crossed the street to Harold's side, approaching him quickly from behind, a bulky bag on her shoulder bouncing against her side with each step. Harold stepped toward the street and paused to let Bear sniff at light pole. Finch's attention seemed to be on the dog, but John saw the shift of his shoulders and slight lift of his head as Harold tracked the woman when she hustled past him. Finch had let her get a good distance ahead of him before he tugged on Bear's leash and they resumed their trek toward the corner. Reese nodded in approval at his friend's caution. 

"Just coming into view on the north-facing camera," Shaw said. 

As dog and man moved out of the peripheral view of the east camera, Fusco minimized the window they'd been watching, revealing the same footage Shaw was viewing. Reese touched his shoulder. 

"South view. Keep an eye out for the van."

Fusco nodded. John edged a little closer to Shaw. 

"The report said the cab picked him up just north of the corner," she murmured, eyes glued to the screen. 

The new view showed Finch and Bear coming to a halt on the sidewalk, about 30 feet beyond a bus stop shelter. The dog's ears were perked, head swiveling, his body language suggesting an interest in his surroundings, not the taught tension indicative of a perceived threat. Finch also seemed calm and composed. John could see his stance shifting ever so slightly as the older man casually scanned his surroundings. 

"Neither of them look worried," Shaw noted. "But Finch is keeping an eye on the girl."

The young woman who had hurried past Finch was standing just inside the transparent panels that formed the bus shelter. Her attention was on the cell phone in her hand, her fingers moving rapidly over the screen. Shaw glanced up at John.

"Could just be checking her messages," Reese said quietly, addressing the question she hadn't voiced. He studied the two other occupants of the shelter: a teen-age boy and girl who appeared to be too engaged with each other to be of any threat. 

"Got a cab on approach," Fusco called out. "Same company that picked up Finch. City bus about a block behind it."

The young woman looked up, glanced in the direction of the on-coming bus, pocketed her phone and resettled the bag on her shoulder. Beyond the shelter, Finch was watching the same direction, right hand raised slightly to signal the cab. Some command must have passed between man and dog, because Bear's attention shifted to Harold, and he immediately dropped to a sit. 

The cab slid to the curb in front of Finch. He opened the rear passenger-side door and Bear scrambled inside. Harold took one more quick look around, then climbed in beside him. The cab pulled away just as the city bus stopped next to the shelter. The young woman got on, but the teenagers waved off the driver. Seconds later the bus pulled out. 

Reese kept his eyes on the cab. "Lionel?"

"Nothing yet...wait. Shaw, what's your time-stamp?"

She paused the feed on her monitor. "23:25.39."

"I've got a van on the east camera, a half-block out from the corner...turning north."

Shaw's fingers flicked across the keys restarting the video. "Got it."

Reese leaned toward the screen. The cab was out of frame, and for a few seconds the city bus obstructed the view of both northbound lanes, but then a dark cargo van surged forward into view. 

"Shaw--"

Her finger slammed down to freeze the screen. The back of the van was clearly visible. Before Reese could ask, she was already reaching toward the monitor, using the touch-screen feature to try to enlarge the view of the rear plate. 

John turned in Fusco's direction. "Backtrack the van and the girl."

"Spotter?" Shaw asked quietly, still working to get an image of the van plate that they could use.

He grunted an affirmative and shifted back to Fusco's side. The detective had gone back to the point of the feed where Finch had first appeared, and was letting it run a few frames at a time before pausing it to study the image. 

"There's the girl." 

The image frozen on the screen showed the young woman exiting the small coffee shop. She carried her bag and coat in one hand. Fusco let the video play in real time. As soon as she had cleared the doorway, she reached back and pulled her hair out of a ponytail, ruffling through the long strands as they settled on her shoulders. 

Fusco paused the image just as she was slipping into her coat, and shook his head. "The logo on her t-shirt matches the sign on the shop."

"She works there," John murmured in agreement. His gaze shifted to the line of vehicles parked at the curb. Instinct nudged at him. He touched the screen. "Advance it, but watch for movement here."

He had Fusco pause the video again just as Finch and Bear were about to step out of the frame. Still no sign of the van. 

"Pull up all four feeds and sync them," Reese ordered. 

It took a few moments to adjust the four windows and get the time-stamps to match. Shaw turned toward them so she could see Fusco's screen as well, a blow-up of the license plate she'd managed to capture in her hand. Nearly thirty seconds after Finch's cab had pulled away from the curb, headlights lit on a vehicle parked just past the coffee shop--almost exactly where Reese had pinpointed. 

"The girl might not be the spotter, but they've got to have someone in place that tagged the cab," Shaw observed. "Or the cab driver's in on it. The van is forty seconds behind before it makes the turn at the intersection."

Fusco reversed all the feeds, pausing them at the point when the van's headlights came on. None of the footage they'd scrutinized so far showed anything unusual. John focused on the view from the camera facing west. In the right side of the frame, there was another bus shelter where a group of five late night travelers stood waiting. He studied the frozen figures...something about one of them...

He suddenly leaned forward, pointing at a figure in a hooded sweatshirt, standing inside the shelter with his back to the camera. "That's the spotter." 

Fusco frowned and tapped the window to enlarge the view as far as his department issued laptop allowed. "You sure? Looks like he's just waiting there for the bus like the rest of them." 

John stared at the figure. A cold shiver of certainty ran down his spine. "I'm sure."

Shaw handed the printout of the van plate to Fusco, then spun back to her laptop. Pulling up the west footage, she found the segment they'd been looking at and zoomed in on the target Reese had identified. She ran the footage in reverse for several minutes' elapsed time before cueing it to play again. John leaned toward her screen, watching as the figure stayed hidden behind the other waiting passengers, shifting in small increments toward the corner of shelter, keeping his shoulder to the camera, the hood on the sweatshirt pulled forward to mask his features.

"He's being cautious about surveillance...he's using the other people as a shield," Shaw noted, zooming in closer to focus on the man's head. "Come on... turn a little farther to the left..."

Suddenly the man did just that, looking directly toward the camera. Shaw froze the image.

"Logan Pierce," Reese snarled, feeling the betrayal like a punch to the gut. 

"You know this guy?" Fusco asked.

"He was someone Harold and I helped over a year ago," John said flatly. "A self-made billionaire, good with computers."

"Another Finch?" 

"Not even close to Harold's league. But he's got resources, and he likes to play games with people. He gets a kick out of living on the edge and he doesn't care if getting his adrenalin fix puts someone else in danger. Pierce could be behind this. It would fit his arrogant, twisted sense of humor. He gave me a watch as a 'thank you' for saving his life. There was a GPS tracker in it."

Pierce had been dangerously intrigued by Finch's ability to cloak them from discovery. What Reese had written off as another of Logan's juvenile pranks suddenly took on a whole new meaning.

John shook his head in disgust. "I led him right to Finch. Twice. The second time, Harold had Bear with him."

Shaw winced, but offered no platitudes. "You said Pierce had resources. Enough to pull this off?" She gestured toward their evidence board. "Whoever set this up has connections, too. The shooter was a pro. So were the guys in the van. That's not the type of crew that's going to be easy to find and hire, or that's going to risk taking the heat for a kidnapping, just so some spoiled, rich guy can get his jollies."

"Offer up enough money, and you can buy anything," Reese countered bitterly.

"I've got a hit on the plate," Fusco interrupted them, looking up from his laptop. "It's registered to a delivery vehicle reported stolen from White Plains last week." He turned and jotted a notation on the pieced-together map laying on the coffee table, then whistled softly. "If you hadn't picked this guy out, we would have needed a task-force to chase down all these leads."

John moved to study the map. It was heavily spotted with color-coded circles and notes. 

"At least fifteen area gun shops sell that model dart rifle," Shaw noted. "There are nineteen accredited vet schools and hundreds of veterinarians associated with them who could get access to the drugs used on Bear. Both the rifle and the drugs could be purchased online as well, but if you didn't want them traced, there are always street sources. Now we've got the van picked up all the way out in White Plains. If we hadn't caught Finch on those CCTV feeds, we would have been chasing our tails just trying to narrow down a lead on the book broker. Does something this complex fit Pierce's style?" 

"I wouldn't put it past him," Reese answered.

"But what's the point?" Fusco asked. "If you helped him before, why would he pull something like this?"

"When I find him, it'll be the _second_ question I ask him, Lionel," John responded harshly. "He had a penthouse condo in Manhattan. See if there's anything newer."

Fusco turned his attention back to his laptop, tapped a few keys. 

"DMV lists a Manhattan address. I'll check our database." His fingers moved across the keyboard again. "Guy's got a fairly big file. Looks like he's been in and out of trouble over the last year. Petty stuff, mostly nuisance complaints. Nothing that stuck. Must have some good lawyers. Uniforms responded to a disturbance at his penthouse two weeks ago. The officer of record's notes indicate Pierce had taken a pretty good beating. Wouldn't ID anyone, or file any charges, so they had to walk away." 

"There's your reason, Lionel," John snarled. "The bastard's in trouble." He turned to Shaw. "You might be right about Finch being bait. Pierce put himself in danger the last time, just to see how we worked. I wouldn't put it past him to shanghai Harold in order to force me to bail him out." 

"Maybe I should be the one to go after him, then," she said. "I wasn't around when you dealt with him last time. He won't be watching for me."

"It'll take me less time to find him."

"Then have Lionel back you up."

Fusco eyed both of them then heaved himself up out of his chair, grabbing his mug off the table. "I'm gonna grab another cup of coffee. Let you two work this out. Wherever you want me on this, I'm in." 

As soon as he left the room, Reese pushed the coffee table aside, flipping the cushions off the couch. There was a compartment underneath with an electronic keypad. John entered the code, waited for the 'snick' as the mechanism unlocked, then opened the cache to reveal several large black bags. He pulled them out and set them on the table. 

"I wondered if you might have had a hand in the decorating scheme," Shaw murmured in approval as John unzipped one of the bags to reveal the weapons it held. She opened another bag and removed several guns and magazines of ammunition. 

"Finch said Pierce was just curious enough to be dangerous," John growled as he armed himself. "I should have put an end to the threat when I had the chance." He fed a new full magazine into his Sig-Sauer and racked the slide before sliding it into the holster at his back.

"He was a Number. Finch wouldn't have approved."

"Sometimes Harold's moral compass needs re-calibrating. That's why he has us, Shaw. We're supposed to take care of the ugly details."

And keep him safe, John thought grimly.

He pulled a heavy, short-barreled rifle and several boxes of shells out of the bag Shaw had been rooting through. He checked the weapon and placed it in the other bag, dumping the ammunition in before zipping it shut.

"Pierce might have been a victim the first time around, but not now. I'd lay odds that it's his number The Machine gave me." 

"You made contact with The Machine?"

"Just before you called me in." He grabbed a pen and jotted down the code information on the corner of the map. "You know how to decipher this?"

Shaw nodded. "I figured there was a reason Finch set up in a library. If the Number is connected to Harold's abduction, why didn't The Machine give us more warning? Why didn't it see something sooner?" 

Reese hesitated. "It should have. Finch said The Machine has to detect a certain degree of pre-meditation before it identifies an Irrelevant Number." He eyed the map. "This took a lot of planning."

"That could mean Pierce, if he's the Number, isn't the man behind the curtain. Just one of the puppets."

John jerked the weapons bag off the table and slid the strap over his shoulder. "He's involved. That's all I need to know."

"Well, I've still got a few questions." Shaw pointed to her laptop, where Pierce's frozen image was captured. "This guy doesn't look smug. He looks scared."

John glanced at the screen, trying to view it without anger and resentment coloring his perspective. He had to admit that Pierce's expression held none of the arrogance he normally associated with the man. "It doesn't change the fact that he's our best lead to find Finch. While I'm chasing him down, can you decipher that code? Confirm that it's Pierce?" 

Shaw nodded. "I'll try to find the book broker, too. Any idea which alias Finch might have used?"

"Partridge or Crane are covers he's used in the past when he was posing as a wealthy investor, but those books are personal to him. I'm betting the broker knows him as 'Harold', no matter what last name he gave."

"What about Lionel?"

Reese didn't want the detective in the mix when he confronted Logan. Fusco wasn't squeamish, but there was no line John wasn't willing to cross to get the answers they needed.

"His badge might get you in the door once you track down the broker. Until then, he can keep working on the rest of this mess. Maybe he can get something more out of the cops that responded to the call at Pierce's condo. Something that wasn't in the report. If I can't find Logan at one of his normal haunts, maybe whoever worked him over knows where he is."

*********************


	5. Chapter 5

Reese sped across the Queensboro Bridge, his thoughts as dark and turbulent as the river below. 

He had misjudged Logan Pierce, just as he had Carl Elias. 

John shook his head, disgusted with himself. He knew he tended to empathize and lose his detachment with some of their Numbers. Domestic abuse cases and those involving innocents, especially children, cranked his protective instincts. The gentle intelligence and compassion projected by Elias' alias, Charlie Burton, had fooled him. Reese had thought he was a good man until the truth was revealed and he discovered they had saved a monster.

He had sworn he would never make that mistake again, yet here they were, facing another mess, with Harold's life on the line. 

Pierce's arrogance and cavalier attitude had pissed him off from the beginning, but Logan had also shown signs of having the potential to become a halfway decent human being. When he had spoken of the loss of his father's business and its impact on his family, Reese had gotten a glimpse of why Pierce refused to be that vulnerable again. His explanation about the importance of connections between people had resonated so strongly with John, that he had passed off the billionaire's planting the GPS in the watch as just another example of the man's annoying foolishness. He had labeled Pierce as curious, but harmless.

Finch had known better. 

Guilt made John grip the steering wheel harder and press his foot more firmly on the accelerator. If he'd been doing his job properly, Harold would never have been in the field on that case. Pierce never would have seen his face. If Reese had refused Logan's gift or thrown it away, Pierce wouldn't have had a fix on a location Finch frequented.

He had betrayed Finch to Elias, too. He had put Harold on the mobster's radar by using his name in the man's presence. 

Hell, he had even told Finch that Burton reminded John of him. Just like he done with Pierce. He had sat on that park bench after Finch had discovered the GPS hidden in the watch and made a sardonic comment about Logan being a 'cunning billionaire with unlimited resources.' Equating either of them with Harold had been an insult of the highest order. 

Harold would never have endangered the life of a child in a power play for revenge. He would never intentionally betray anyone to save his own skin. Harold understood power, but he didn't abuse it, didn't seek it for himself. Anyone else with his fortune and talents would have taken off, bought an island somewhere, and lived a free, easy life. Instead, he risked himself every day, trying to save innocent lives, offering second chances, making a difference in a world where so few cared.

When he got Finch back, there were going to be some changes. No more wandering off on his own. No more secret meetings. No more--

Reese barked a harsh laugh. Harold wasn't going to change. John wasn't going to be able to keep Finch out of the field or away from risky situations. The man wouldn't stand for being sidelined, ensconced in his Library, no matter how much Reese's protective instincts screamed that was the safest place for him. The best John could hope for...

...would be crawling into bed with Harold next to him every night, and waking with him the next morning. Knowing he was safe for that sliver of time. 

He pressed down harder on the gas pedal. The sooner he found Pierce, the sooner that hope could become reality.

****************

The slower moving traffic on the city streets frustrated him, but Reese finally caught sight of the high-rise building where Pierce's penthouse condo was located. He was about to pull into an open space a block away, when a flare of light from inside one of the cars parked along the curb changed his mind. As he drove past the vehicle, he caught the red-orange glow denoting the tip of a burning cigarette. He continued to the end of the block, picking out several men lingering in the shadows of surrounding buildings. 

Reese turned left and drove a block before easing the sedan to the curb. He backtracked to investigate. 

Within a few minutes he had pinpointed the locations of seven men, plus two more cars he suspected were in on the stakeout. Whoever was watching the building had come in force, the seven on foot carrying the lumpy bulk which suggested some heavy firepower. 

Choosing a man on the fringe of the perimeter, John slid up behind him. A sharp rap to the back of the man's skull with the butt of his Sig-Sauer laid him out quietly; a quick search of his pockets revealed an ID with a tongue-twisting surname and a pack of unfiltered Russian cigarettes. Reese snapped a shot of the man's face and identification and sent them to Fusco.

John made his way back to his car and checked in with an update. Shaw had confirmed that Pierce was the new Number and was making slow, but steady progress toward finding the book broker. She had the names of the tenants in the buildings they'd identified, and was researching backgrounds.

Fusco had nothing new on the beating Pierce had suffered, but had found a separate incident of officers responding to reports of armed men loitering near the building where Logan's new offices were located. Lionel had done some further digging and discovered Pierce was up to his neck in financial troubles. Running the identification and photo of the man Reese had taken down had quickly pinged a rap sheet for a suspected hit man for the Russian Mob. 

It seemed unlikely the Russians were behind Finch's abduction. They tended toward brute force over stealth. The threat they posed did, however, provide a clue.

If Logan _had_ gotten involved with the Russians on some deal and it went south, it would explain why they were staking out his place, and why Pierce might have been desperate enough to go to any length to find John for protection. Reese couldn't see the Russians putting up with the billionaire's obnoxious behavior. They weren't going to stand for being called 'bitches' and blown off while Logan coasted off to play at Coney Island. 

They were more likely to blow off Pierce's head. 

John cruised by the condo once more. He doubted Pierce was inside, and he probably wasn't at his office either. It was time to go digging and find the rock the billionaire had crawled under.

********************

The pale light of dawn was just beginning to brighten the horizon. On any other day, John would have been gratified to see the start of a new, clear morning, but all it meant now was that time, and their chance of finding Harold, was slipping away. 

The hours spent visiting every club and bar he thought Pierce might have buried himself in had been a waste. He had unearthed a number of the billionaire's 'friends', but none of them had been of any help in locating him. The basketball court where he had last encountered Logan was the remaining option. If he didn't find Pierce here, he would have to go back to the condo and interrogate the Russians.

The metal chains of the nets clinked softly, stirred by a light breeze. 

Reese moved to the center of the court. As if summoned, Pierce emerged from the shadows, hurrying toward him, still in the hooded sweatshirt he had been wearing in the surveillance feed.

"John, oh man, I've been--"

Reese closed the distance and grabbed him by the throat, brutally pinching shut the airway he had once forced open. He pushed the billionaire backward, not stopping until he hit the chain link fence, the impact creating a metallic rattling wave that washed the length of the court. 

"Where is he?" John demanded.

Logan's eyes were wide, fingers clutching at his throat, one hand locked around Reese's wrist. John released the pressure just enough for the man to grab a breath and choke out a response. 

"I need...your help...the Russ--"

John tightened his grip. "The Russians are the least of your problems right now," he snarled.

"You don't...understand--"

"My friend's missing. You set him up. Tell me where they took him."

"I don't...know!"

Reese slammed him back against the fence. "You've been following him."

Pierce's face was turning red, his fingers clawing at John's desperately. Reese forced himself to give the man enough breathing room to to respond. 

"To find you! He was the only lead I had!"

"He saved your life," John hissed. "If he hadn't hacked your car you would have been a smear on the pavement."

"Yeah, well this time I don't need a hacker. I need someone with your skills."

Reese shoved him away in disgust. The billionaire fell sideways, grabbing at the metal links of the fence as he tumbled to the pavement. He edged back against the fence, clutching his throat. John loomed over him.

"Where is he, Pierce?"

"I'm telling you the truth. I don't know. I just helped him find the right book broker and spotted the cab."

"Helped who?"

"He called himself Geist." 

The name meant nothing. "How do I find Geist?" Reese pressed. "What's he look like?"

"I never met him. Everything was arranged over the phone or through one of his men."

"What's he want with Harold?"

"He just wanted to talk to him."

John pulled out his phone, retrieved the surveillance image of Finch being loaded into the van, and thrust it in front of Logan's face. 

"They ambushed him. Dropped him with a trank. Does that look like _conversation_ to you?" 

Pierce shook his head, shoved the phone away.

"Why, Pierce?" 

"I didn't have any choice. I needed protection. I figured once you got the Russians off my back, he could work some of his magic. Do what he does for the two of you. Make me disappear." 

John had to clamp down hard on the rage that flooded him. "You're a fool, Pierce. All you do is use people. Harold gave you a second chance and you didn't learn a damn thing." He reached for his Sig. "He's a good man. I'm going to get him back and you're going to help."

"But--"

Reese leveled the pistol at Pierce. "You wanted people killed. I can start with you."

The billionaire scuttled backward, rattling the fence, holding up both hands desperately. "I can't tell you where he is. I don't know!"

"Get on the phone and contact Geist."

"He won't answer. The calls always originated on his end. I tried tracing the number, but it just loops." 

John crouched down and rested the muzzle of the Sig against Logan's chest. "Tell me everything you did, everything you know. Start with that watch you gave me."

Pierce's gaze shifted rapidly from the gun pressing against him to Reese's face. John let the control on his anger slip, letting Pierce see the darkness he was facing.

Logan swallowed hard. "You and your friend...the way you worked together...You had all the answers before you should have known them." Some of Pierce's old arrogance worked itself into his expression and voice. "I wasn't buying that altruism crap. I wanted to know what you were really up to. I tracked the GPS in the watch to Queensbridge Park before it quit working. I paid a guy to to keep watch there. It took a while, but your friend finally showed up. He had a dog with him. You even met him there a couple of times.

"My guy couldn't keep track of him after he left the Park, though. Or you. I kept him on it, figuring it would pay off at some point. 

"Things fell apart with the new business. Banging your partner's wife isn't conducive to a long-term business relationship, I guess. I made some investments that didn't pan out. The Feds were sniffing around. I met a guy at a party. A friend of a friend, of a friend. He set me up with this Russian. He needed a tech solution to a cash flow problem he was having. They offered a bundle up-front. I took it."

That explained the presence of the armed men staking out the condo and Pierce's office building: Pierce was laundering money for the Russian Mob.

"Where does Geist figure into this?" Reese pressed. "Is he connected to the Russians?"

"I don't know. He could be. They weren't happy with how long it was taking to clear the funds. A couple of their thugs paid me a visit. Convinced me I'd be dead if I didn't find a way to expedite the process. I figured you were my best shot at staying alive.

"The day after they pounded me into the ground, I contacted my guy, told him to approach your friend, let him know I was looking for you. But your buddy never showed at the park. Then, out of the blue, Geist called. He said he knew what was going on. Offered to help."

"For a price," John rasped. "Harold."

"He already knew the two of you worked together. Said you'd crossed paths before."

Reese scowled. Who the hell was Geist? Where and when had they run into him? 

"Geist said he had a proposition for your friend, but was having the same trouble finding him that I was. If I could set up a meeting, he'd make it worth my while. I told him the only thing I was interested in was finding you. He guaranteed he could make that happen."

Reese ignored the stab of guilt in favor of answers. "So you led him to Harold. How?"

"My guy had said he almost always had a book with him. The authors varied. Austen, Dickens. Hardcover, not some cheap paperback. With his resources, I figured your friend was a collector. I started calling the higher-end bookstores. Claimed I'd found an expensive book on a bench in the park, and that I thought it belonged to a man who owned a Belgian Malinois. The description finally rang a bell with a clerk at one of the stores. The owner told me the man I was asking about typically bought rare first editions, and only through a trusted broker. He wouldn't give me the customer's name. The clerk was more cooperative when I flashed him some cash."

"What name?"

"Towhee. Harold Towhee."

Reese sent a text to Shaw, hoping the alias would narrow her search. "Go on." 

"When Geist contacted me again, I passed on the information. A couple days went by and nothing. No calls from Geist, no sign of you. The Russians were getting insistent. They were hanging around my condo and my office. I tried reaching my guy, but he'd disappeared."

The man Pierce had employed to tail Finch was probably on a slab in the morgue, John thought grimly. Or buried somewhere deep, taking Harold's secrets with him--at least those he hadn't revealed to Geist. 

"I've been hiding out down here for the past two days," Logan continued. "One of Geist's men found me last night. He said everything had been arranged. I just needed to do one more thing." 

John rose and holstered his weapon. Pierce scrambled to his feet, grabbing Reese's arm as he turned to walk away. 

"I still need your help. You could do it. Stop the Russians. I'll pay you anything you want."

Furious, Reese shook him off. "You're a waste of space. Do you know what altruism really is? It's actions that produce the greatest benefit to others." 

John slammed his fist into Pierce's jaw, sending him sprawling.

"The greatest benefit to others that I can think of, is to let the Russians have you." 

 

**************

With the clock on Harold now at six and a half hours missing, Shaw and Fusco stood outside the apartment they believed he had visited. The older woman who had answered the intercom and buzzed them inside, had been cautiously agreeable to meeting them. 

The woman that opened the door appeared to be in her mid-seventies and rather fragile. Dressed in casual, but expensive-looking blouse and slacks, she wore a pair of old-fashioned reading spectacles that slid a bit down her nose as she studied them dubiously. Behind the glasses, her eyes looked slightly puffy from sleep.

Shaw took the lead. "Professor Sinclair? We're friends of Harold's. We called earlier."

"I assume you have some identification."

Fusco showed her his badge. 

"You didn't say this was a police matter." Sinclair looked concerned. "Is Mr. Towhee all right?"

"I'm sure he's fine," Shaw said quickly. "He was supposed to meet us for an early breakfast this morning, but hasn't been answering his phone and he's not at home." She nodded toward Fusco. "Being a detective, Lionel always assumes the worst. Harold had mentioned that he was stopping to see you late last night, so we thought we'd check with you to see if something had come up to change his plans."

The woman looked skeptical, but she stepped back and gestured for them to enter.

The apartment was neat, the furnishings a combination of contemporary and antique. The air was scented with aged leather and paper emanating from the floor-to-ceiling bookcases which lined several walls. Sinclair was a retired academic, well respected, and an acknowledged expert on Charles Dickens.

She led them to a bay-windowed breakfast nook, where a pot of tea sat steaming on a small table. Paper thin china cups and saucers for three were already set out, as well as sugar, lemon, milk and a plate of scones. Very proper. Shaw could envision Harold sitting with her, drinking tea with a little finger crooked precisely, engaging in the etiquette of proper decorum before the crassness of a monetary negotiation. 

There was also a sturdy-looking box on the table. Sam's fingers itched to get inside, guessing it contained the book which had drawn Finch here.

The Professor invited them to sit, then took a seat herself. She lifted the teapot in invitation. Fusco declined. Shaw nodded and helped herself to one of the scones, making an effort to curb her impatience. It was clear the woman wasn't going to speak until the niceties had been observed. 

"Mr. Towhee _wa_ s here late last night," Sinclair finally offered after preparing her own tea. "He arrived just before ten. We had a delightful visit as always. It's such a pleasure to encounter someone so well read and so knowledgeable. Far too many people who collect rare books only do so for the investment value. They don't enjoy the volume in its entirety. Few appreciate the craftsmanship and detail of the binding, the palpable weight of finely milled paper..."

"But Harold does," Shaw commented, hoping to curtail the woman's discourse. 

Sinclair gave her a slightly affronted glance. " _Mr._ Towhee certainly does. Such a gentleman. And so understanding. He was quite kind when I had to tell him that the seller had changed his mind about parting with such a treasure at the last minute."

"And what treasure would that be?" Lionel asked. "I don't know much about the books he collects, other than that they're pretty pricey."

"Price is relative, young man," she said haughtily. 

"The book?" Sam prompted.

"More properly, it's a manuscript or compilation," Sinclair corrected her, laying a hand on the box. "A collection of Charles' Dickens' personal papers. Hand bound. Lovely work. One of a kind."

"Authentic?"

"The provenance appears indisputable."

"I'm surprised anyone would want to sell it," Shaw commented, striving for casual.

"It is a bit unusual to have such an item available, however the seller stressed that he wanted it to find a home with someone who would truly appreciate it. That's why I immediately thought of Mr. Towhee."

"You contacted Harold...Mr. Towhee, about the book?" Fusco prodded.

"He has a very discriminating palate, and a standing request for any Dickens' rare items," Sinclair explained.

"Who owns it?" Sam asked.

"The seller prefers to remain anonymous. That's not unusual with a valuable item like this."

Shaw tried to keep her rising frustration with the woman out of her tone. "You don't know who the seller is? You never met him?"

"No. We spoke on the telephone. He had an associate deliver the item. I insisted on seeing it and having the opportunity to investigate the provenance, before offering it to any of my clients. Particularly since we'd not done business prior to this. I have a reputation to protect, after all." 

"If you hadn't done business with him before, how did you learn the book was for sale?"

"The seller contacted me. He indicated he had gotten my name from Adolphus Books. I've known the owner, Mr. Robert Russell, for many years. Mr. Towhee knows him as well. I understand he's a somewhat regular patron there...for the more accessible items."

That gave them the connection, and fit with what Pierce had told Reese. A few judiciously posed questions of the unsuspecting clerk might have produced an idea of what kind of bait to offer. And whom to have dangle it. 

"I assume you still have the seller's phone number?" Shaw pressed. 

"Yes, but..." Sinclair's expression sharpened and then turned puzzled. "I thought you were here inquiring about Mr. Towhee. Why are you so interested in the owner of a book he didn't even purchase?"

Fusco started to fumble for a reasonable answer, but Shaw cut him off with an abrupt slash of her hand. There had been a flash of something in the woman's eyes, an edge to her tone, as she'd asked that question. Sam stared at Sinclair for a moment, sorting through what her intuition and observation suggested. She let a satisfied smile slowly curve her lips.

"I can see why Harold likes you. You're very good. The proper tea settings, the slightly affronted, doddering professor act. It works well for you."

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Lionel's stunned gaze shifting between them, but she kept her focus on the woman.

Sinclair pulled off the old-fashioned reading glasses and tossed them aside to clatter on the table. "It often pays to appear less than one is." The soft edges she had affected disappeared. She looked years younger, and very sharp. She leaned forward intently, eyes bright with intelligence and concern. "Is Harold all right?"

"He's missing. Abducted shortly after he left here last night." 

"Because of that damn book?"

"Possibly."

Sinclair rose to her feet and started to pace angrily. "I _knew_ there was something wrong with this deal."

Fusco was apparently up to speed. "The seller didn't call it off. You did."

"You had suspicions, but you didn't tell Harold," Shaw added. 

Sinclair stopped in her tracks. "Yes, I stopped the sale. And I didn't tell Harold the truth. I didn't want to look foolish. The book is authentic, as far as I can tell, but if it turned out there was something illicit going on... I like Harold. He's a good client and an honorable man. I didn't want him to get caught in the fallout."

"And I imagine he adds a generous bonus to your commission," Shaw said dryly.

Sinclair's face colored. "Initially, it all seemed very proper, and when I saw the item...It wasn't until we'd already set an appointment for him to review the book that I started to have doubts about the transaction." 

"What kind of doubts?"

"There was something...unsettling about the man who owns it. I've dealt with sellers who want to remain anonymous, but I couldn't even get a first name. And he was smooth...prepared with an answer to all my questions. He dropped the names of precisely the right people as referrals. He claimed he contacted me because Robert had told him about a man named 'Harold' who was specifically interested in Dickens' collectibles." 

Shaw shot a grim look at Fusco. 

"I called Robert right before Harold arrived. Robert was incensed that I would even think he would tread on his clients' privacy in such a manner. So I told Harold the seller had changed his mind at the last minute. I intended to do some more digging. Double-check the provenance. Make sure the seller was on the up and up. If my suspicions proved false, I would have contacted Harold again so he could make an offer." Sinclair shook her head. "I should have just told him the truth."

Shaw wished she had. If Harold had known, he would have taken precautions--called Reese for a pickup, or done one of his tricky disappearing acts. 

"We need whatever information you can give us on the seller," Fusco said, rising to his feet. 

Sinclair retrieved a cordless telephone. She pushed a few buttons and read off a phone number. 

Shaw pulled out her cell, dialed the number and got a recording. "Disconnected," she reported. 

"Did you ever talk to him on a cell phone?" Fusco asked. "We might be able to trace him through his carrier." 

"He sent one along with the book. I assumed so I could get in touch with him after the sale. He said the other number was for his landline and he couldn't always be reached there." 

Sinclair returned to the table and opened a drawer, extracting a slim smartphone. She handed it to Shaw. 

Sam checked the call log, but it only held the number she had just tried. Turning the phone over in her hand, She noted tape residue on it. "Was there something attached to this?"

"Oh, yes." Sinclair reached into the drawer again and pulled out a flat object, almost identical in size to the phone. "I don't know what it is."

She held the device out to Shaw, who took it, handling it as gingerly as she would a poisonous snake. Sam knew what it was, and it meant nothing but bad news. She shot a warning look at Fusco who was quick to catch her intent.

"Professor, do you have someone you can stay with for a few days? Out of town?"

"I have a friend who has a house on the Shore..."

"That'll work. Pack whatever you need for a week."

"But what about Harold? If I can help--"

"He'd want you safe," Shaw interrupted tersely. "We'll find him."

For a moment, Sinclair looked as old and fragile as she had when they'd first met her at the door. She nodded and left the room.

Sam opened the cell phone and pulled the battery. 

Fusco nodded toward the other device. "What is that?"

"Trouble," Shaw muttered. "We need to get that book out of here, too. Can you stash it somewhere safe and get Sinclair on the road?"

"Yeah."

"Good. I'll be in touch."

She left the apartment and hustled down the stairs, tapping her earpiece.

"Reese, we've got a serious problem. Our 'ghost' is back."


	6. Chapter 6

_Fear filled that indefinable moment before true consciousness. It had no shape, no color, but it permeated his other senses..._

_Flooding his mouth and nostrils with the unforgettable taste and smell of blood..._

_Assaulting his eardrums with thunder and a high pitched, unending scream..._

_Washing him with with ice and fire..._

_Entombing him..._

_Weight on his chest..._

_Pain..._

_Hands holding him down..._

_He couldn't breathe..._

 

Awareness beckoned insistently, the fragments of terrifying sensory images, clinging like cobwebs in Harold's mind, battered aside by a pounding headache that nearly obliterated rational thought. It was near migraine level, throbbing at his temples and behind his eyes with each beat of his pulse. The pain that accompanied his automatic grimace was followed by impending nausea. He swallowed several times, muzzily noting the dryness of his mouth and sore throat; the bitter, medicinal taste that clung to his tongue. He concentrated on keeping his roiling stomach in line, laying still and breathing shallowly.

As the nausea subsided, he opened his eyes. Blinding white light stabbed like a knife into his brain. He squeezed his eyes shut and rode out the lightshow behind his eyelids. He reached up to touch his face, vaguely registering that his glasses were missing. 

His hand fell back to his side, foggy mind struggling to understand what was happening. Foregoing another attempt at opening his eyes, he used his fingers to explore the surface beneath him. It felt like a narrow cot of some kind, thin mattress supported by a metal, tubular frame. He could feel the fabric of his suit coat bunched up behind his back, the knot of his tie slightly askew. He flexed his toes, confirming that he was still wearing his shoes. He was fully dressed. 

That awareness kick-started his brain into gear. Warily, he opened his eyes again, only to slam them shut almost immediately. Wherever he was, the room was brightly lit. He had the impression of white walls and ceiling and nothing else. 

He shifted his weight cautiously, dismayed by the sluggishness of his movements. The headache flared again. He breathed through it, taking an inventory of the rest of his aches and pains. There were more than there should be. He knew his body. He had lived with chronic pain since the explosion at the ferry. He was intimately familiar with every twinge that should accompany his first waking, which joints stiffened from long hours sitting in front of his computer, which muscles spasmed when he overexerted himself. 

The hotspot/pain/ache in his upper back, between his spine and right scapula was new. 

As was the sore spot in the crook of his left arm. It was a common site for an IV, or a blood draw. His mind instinctively skittered away from that latter possibility. Fluids or other drugs delivered intravenously to counteract whatever had taken him down were more-- 

_Taken down?_

Memories of the attack flooded his mind. The present became a dangerous reality. 

One of their enemies had come calling. It didn't matter which of the entities currently dogging their steps had him. All of them would like to see him dead or permanently removed from the battlefield. 

Pain took a backseat to survival. Rolling to his side, he cradled the back of his fused neck with his left hand to support it, and levered himself to a sitting position, pushing off with his right elbow and hand while awkwardly swinging his legs over the edge of the cot. The abrupt change of position made his head pound and his stomach roll. He ignored the sensations of nausea, grabbed the edge of the cot for stability, kept his eyes closed, and concentrated on breathing. 

When he was past the panting stage and his headache had receded to where he could think, he risked opening his eyes. He could only hold them open for a few seconds before the glare stabbed at him again. 

In those seconds, he garnered just enough input to make his heart race. 

Something was seriously wrong with his vision. He forced his eyes open again and held up his hand in front of his face. A flesh-colored blur was all he could make out. He gripped the edge of the cot, closing his eyes and concentrating on the red-tinged black of the inside of his eyelids. Normally, without his glasses, he could at least see close objects in some detail. 

He swallowed hard and tried again, this time attempting to see something farther away, but the result was the same. Fear gibbered. 

_Think!_

Lips pressed together into a firm line, he drew in a deep breath, then another. His mind re-engaged. Giving in to fear would be pointless. He needed to keep his wits about him. He gathered himself, sitting up straight, releasing his white-knuckled hold on the cot. He flexed his fingers, kept breathing. 

His eyes stung, and burned, but light was still registering, even if exposure to it was painful. It was his ability to focus that was affected, similar to when he'd had dilation for an eye exam. However that typically only affected near-object acuity, not distance. He was experiencing problems with both. 

The reasonable conclusion was evident. His captor had done something to impair his vision. He could only hope it was temporary. But why? Was there something they didn't want him to see? Or was it just a means of controlling him? Intimidating him?

Whatever the reason, it was effective. He wasn't blind, but he was hobbled. 

Still, he had other senses to put to use. If he could stay focused mentally, he wasn't completely vulnerable. 

And he had an ace-in-the-hole. John knew he was in trouble. He and Miss Shaw would be looking for him. Harold just needed to stay alive, stay in the game, seek a way out of this mess. Be ready when Reese arrived.

He spared a moment to hope Bear had survived the attack and resolutely turned his attention to taking another physical inventory. Even with his vision compromised, if he could get on his feet and stay upright, he could risk an escape attempt if the opportunity presented itself.

Paranoia reared its head, reminding him he was undoubtedly under observation. Anger sharpened his mind even further. He consciously relaxed his shoulders and began to straighten his clothing. Settling his suit coat jacket caused a flash of heat and bite of pain from the spot on his upper back. Bear had been flattened by a tranquilizer dart. It was safe to assume they had used a similar weapon to disable him. Immobilizing drugs would account for the headache, the nausea, and the heaviness in his limbs. The overall stiffness of his joints suggested he had been unconscious for some time. How much time, he had no way of gauging. He still wore his watch, but couldn't read it. 

The wound on his back wasn't debilitating, but it nagged at him. There was something about it that felt...odd. Foreign. It made him want to tear his clothes off and dig at it. 

He ran his fingers down the front of his waistcoat instead, checking the buttons. One in the middle had come undone and he slid the button securely into place. He shot his shirt cuffs, easing out the wrinkles inside the sleeves of his coat. Absently fingered his cufflinks. 

His breath caught. The left cufflink was inserted backward, the post to the left side of the cuff instead of the right. He tried to tell himself it made sense in conjunction with the puncture wound in that arm, that some kind of intervention had probably taken place to wean him off the dart's sedatives. They would have had to roll up his shirtsleeve...

And remove his jacket. 

He slid a hand up to the knot in his tie. Swallowed hard. It was a sloppily crafted half-Windsor. 

He shuddered, frozen to the marrow by the wisps of fear that had clung to him upon awakening. 

_...hands holding him down..._

_No, no, no, no, no..._

He felt himself tipping forward, caught the edge of the cot. With an effort of will he wrestled panic into submission, shoving it into a mental strongbox that he slammed shut and locked tight. 

It was like a circuit breaker had been thrown. He felt oddly disconnected, as if his emotions had been ripped out, or frozen, but at least he was aware again. 

Breathing. 

Thinking. 

Rational.

_Focus on the here and now._

He reached up with trembling fingers and undid the knot in his tie, adjusted the silk and formed a crisp knot, snugging it into place at his throat. He smoothed his jacket, far too aware of the crawling prickle of his skin.

_Ignore it! Focus!_

He turned to an assessment of his prison. Opening his eyes to bare slits, he reached forward, running his hands across the brownish blur in front of him. It felt like a small, low table. There was another dark mass on the other side of it. Possibly a chair. He couldn't be certain.

Eyes watering and stinging, he closed them, shifting his concentration to what he could hear. Once he got past the rasp of his own breathing, he found no ambient noise, nothing to suggest where he was.

He let his head drop forward a little and brought his right hand up to gingerly massage his aching neck. The twinge of pulled skin and soreness at the inside of his right elbow suggested another puncture wound. 

His mental strongbox rattled. He focused on his breathing, the one thing he could control, and forced himself to sift through the data he had. He had to be ready to face his adversary. 

Who was It? His near blindness wouldn't benefit Control, other than it gave her a means to keep him docile. He had already seen her face, stood at the point of her gun. He had cheated her when he and Arthur Claypool had escaped her clutches. It seemed more likely she would prefer he be able to see her gloating. She had the power of the government behind her. If she had him, she would never allow him see the light of day again, but it would be because he was imprisoned, _persuaded_ to assist her until she'd drained him dry.

Vigilance's methods were typically more blatant, less...elegant. Peter Collier didn't strike him as a man who would be concerned if he were recognized. He was too much the fanatic. The masks he and his disciples wore were meant to frighten, unify, not hide behind. 

Decima, on the other hand...his knowledge of them was still sketchier than he liked. They did prefer to work from the shadows. If Decima was behind his abduction, it was doubtful they planned to release him, however. Like Control, they would use him up and spit out a corpse. 

With Mark Snow and Agent Donnelly dead, the CIA and FBI had called off the search for the Man in the Suit, so they seemed unlikely candidates, and Harold's connection to Reese had never played into those messes. 

HR was gone; Simmons, the only one of the dirty cops who had met Harold was dead, the rest were in prison. Still, Elias had certainly taught them how well an empire could be run from behind bars. 

And Elias was in the wind now, out there somewhere, plotting and scheming behind the scenes. The subtlety of the attack was well within his sophisticated methodology. The man was a strategist, the complexity of his mind evident in the chess games they had played. Elias knew he and John worked together, and he had an unsettling interest in Reese as far as Harold was concerned. If Elias wanted something from John, taking Harold would guarantee his cooperation.

It made Harold's stomach clench to know he could be used against his partner that way. 

There were other enemies, perpetrators they had brought down as they had sought to protect the Numbers. It was unnerving to realize how many dangerous entities might want revenge. 

But who would have known where and when to attack him? His meeting with Judith Sinclair had been a last minute arrangement, his decision to stay at the safe-house made as he was leaving her condo. Towhee was only one of several aliases he used to purchase his books, Sinclair one of many brokers. She had no knowledge of the double life he lived. Would have no reason to betray him to his enemies. 

He swallowed hard. The only possible answer, was that he'd been followed. If he had been picked up outside of the Library, then the situation was critical--their headquarters might be compromised. Worse, John and Miss Shaw could be in danger. 

A metallic click from directly across the room made him raise his head and halt his mental gymnastics. He risked opening his eyes, glimpsing a tall, dark vertical rectangle in a sea of white before he had to close them again. 

A doorway. Perhaps the only one, but it was a way out. He hoarded the first glimmer of hope close. 

The rustle of cloth and a wheeze of breath that wasn't his, revealed that he was no longer alone. Carefully, he opened his eyes, just a fraction, and just long enough to pick out a dark, blurry, person-sized shape next to where the doorway should be.

He stayed silent and still, the fingers of his left hand clenched around the bar of the cot frame for stability, his right hand resting on his knee, back straight, head up. Information was what he needed, but none was apparently going to be forthcoming from the new occupant of the room. 

An underling then. A guard. Not the person in charge. That meant the odds were at least two to one. It was information, of a sort.

Time seemed to stretch. The quiet tension seeped into his aching muscles and joints. The red-tinged blackness inside his eyelids began to make him feel light-headed, disoriented. He forced himself to blink several times, noting that while his ability to focus hadn't improved, the light seemed marginally less painful. Either he was adjusting to it, or whatever drugs they had used were beginning to lose their efficacy. His eyes still burned though, and he had to fight the urge to rub them. He switch his hand positions instead, flexing the cramped fingers of his left hand before stilling again.

Unwilling to continue pondering their list of enemies, he retreated into mental number games to keep himself alert, avoiding the warning of danger which pricked at the back of his neck, and the headache that still throbbed at his temples. He set himself a goal to count fifty digits of Pi, blink slowly twice, then count another fifty digits. Each time he blinked, he checked on his guard, but the man never moved. 

He was on his fifteenth round of counting and blinking, and he had changed his hand positions three times, when the door opened again. 

Two more blurry shapes entered, one all in dark colors who moved directly toward him. Harold hadn't meant to react, however as he tried to focus on the man, he was hit with a wave of vertigo, and he had to close his eyes and ride it out. He heard something being set down on the table in front of him, but it took several moments before he dared open his eyes again. The items on the table were indistinct blobs of brightness set against a slightly darker brown than the tabletop. 

He caught a whiff of what appeared to be steeping tea, which only served to remind him of his dry mouth and sore throat. He pushed the discomfort to the back of his mind, and let his gaze drift upwards. The man who had delivered the tray took up a position next to the guard near the door. 

Harold wanted to laugh at the absurdity. He was nearly blind, wasn't confident he could even stand, but they considered him dangerous enough to warrant two guards? John would be rolling on the floor in hysterics if he could see this. 

The thought of his partner sobered him immediately. If Reese _were_ here, the guards would be a non-issue because they'd be dead, or incapacitated. Harold would already be out that door and on his way to someplace safe--secure and protected, not facing an unknown enemy alone. 

The third figure finally moved forward, an amorphous blob of dark and light contrast. There was a scrape of something--chair legs against the flooring, Harold guessed--and the blob shrunk from vertical to a squat shape as the man settled into place across the table from him. 

This was his Inquisitor. Male, he thought, heavier-set than the guards, but any details were imperceptible, despite the fact that he was less than a yard away. Harold remained perfectly still, straining to find some point of focus with his impaired vision, until he was forced to shut his eyes against the burn and glare.

Silence hung between them, Harold waiting it out, unwilling to be the first to speak, choosing to spend those fragile moments just breathing, preparing himself for an attack he couldn't see coming, but knew was inevitable.

"You're a difficult man to find, Mr. Towhee."

Harold had steeled himself not to react, other than to open his eyes. 

The man dropped something small and brown onto the table. Harold assumed it was his wallet. 'Harold Towhee' was the identification he had been carrying for his visit to Professor Sinclair. Other than the fake ID, the billfold contained a few hundred dollars in cash. Nothing else that could give away any secrets. 

"But of course that's not your real name. I believe you go by 'Harold' most frequently. Perhaps we should just stick with that."

The heavy weight in Harold's stomach had nothing to do with his earlier nausea. That voice was familiar, and the faint recognition he had of it wasn't tied to anything pleasant. 

"I can't tell you how much I've looked forward to our meeting."

Not someone he had met face to face. A phone conversation...recent. 

"I told you I'd be seeing you."

Enlightenment crystalized with that single phrase. 

The 911 Center. His captor was the man who had orchestrated a young boy's kidnapping, and terrorized a call center operator in order to eliminate evidence of a murder. They had ruined his plans, but hadn't caught him. Faced with more pressing concerns, Harold had forgotten the man's threat that they would meet again.

He softly cleared his achingly dry throat and found his voice for the first time, surprised at how steady it was. "I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage, Mr....?"

His captor laughed. 

"Geist will do. We both know names aren't important. They're simply labels. Easily changeable. A name doesn't really tell you anything about the person. Only observation and interaction does that. I _know_ you remember me, Harold." 

Geist--'ghost', 'specter', or 'spirit' in the German language. Appropriate, given how impossible he'd been to pin down.

It was foolhardy to poke at a predator, but perhaps Reese had rubbed off on him more that he'd realized. Harold managed a shrug. The movement made his head throb, sent a jolt of fire down his fused spine, and aggravated the raw burning sensation in his upper back, but he staunchly refused to let the discomfort show.

"Perhaps in our last encounter I made more of an impression on you, than you did on me," he responded blandly. 

He heard a faint, angry hiss and the blob in front of him shifted, as though Geist was leaning forward. The tension in the space between them was almost palpable. His slap to the man's ego had scored a direct hit.

"I'm sure Sandra and Aaron still remember," Geist said, icily.

Harold tilted his head a fraction to the side, let his eyes drift shut for a moment, trying to get a handle on the dizziness that was plaguing him, while hopefully giving the impression he was pondering what Geist had said. He knew young Aaron had put most of the terror behind him, wrapped in the loving warmth of his family's care, and that they had given Sandra closure on not just Aaron's kidnapping, but her own haunted past. Harold wanted nothing more than to continue to jab at the man's bloated conceit with those facts, but he couldn't take the risk that Geist's attention might turn back to them again.

"Ah...the gentleman behind the trouble at the 911 Center. I recall a brief phone conversation with you, after the fact."

Geist's blurry shape shifted. Harold had the impression he had leaned back in his chair. The man laughed again, but this time there was no humor in it. The sound was chilling, knife-edged.

"You have no idea how rewarding it is to match wits with someone so close to an equal, Harold. I find it so tedious dealing with the rest of what pretends to be my competition these days. There's just no challenge."

Harold had a flashback to Root talking about people as bad code. He put aside. This was a distinctly different adversary.

He closed his eyes for a moment to collect himself. He knew why he was here. Geist was a 'cleaner', a professional hired to make 'messes' disappear. Permanently. They had dealt a blow to his reputation, and within the ranks of paid assassins, reputation was everything. The man wanted revenge--payback for beating him. 

His conversations with Sandra had been filled with oily arrogance. He enjoyed being the puppet master, pulling all the strings behind the scenes, heard but not seen. Harold's half-blind state was another aspect of the same strategy. Geist had tampered with his vision so he could taunt him for a while, without giving Harold the satisfaction of seeing the face of his adversary. 

Once Geist tired of his game, death would undoubtedly follow. The man didn’t leave loose ends. Harold had to be sure that no one else had suffered, or would suffer, the same consequence. 

"My dog was tranquilized. Will he recover?" he asked.

"He should, and without the headache you're experiencing. The drug dose he received was precise."

Harold didn't risk a nod in acknowledgement. His head was pounding. Whether it was an after-effect of being tranquillized or something else that had been done to him, he refused to contemplate. 

"Was anyone else put at risk when you...acquired me?"

"Harold, would I do that? Jeopardize innocent lives?" 

Refusing to respond to the man's mockery, Harold waited. He needed to know that John was safe.

"You were my only target, this time. There was no collateral damage. I did leave a number of red herrings for your associates to pursue. They seem quite capable. I didn't want them interfering with our little chat."

Relief swept through him. Geist had proven very clever in their last confrontation, skilled in diversion, and his hirelings not the least averse to spilling blood. John was undoubtedly looking for him right now, but the odds of Reese finding him, or at least finding him in time, were slim. If he did get close, John would be in danger he would never see coming, until it was too late. Harold had never shared the threat Geist had made against him. It was a small comfort, knowing that his decision to keep the information to himself hadn't put Reese in immediate peril, but Geist knew of him--knew John and Miss Shaw had helped save Aaron and Sandra. That knowledge was worrisome in its own right.

For the moment, he appeared to be the focus of Geist's interest. Harold needed to keep it that way.

"What is it you wish to discuss?" he asked.

"You, of course. I like to get to know my opponents inside and out."

Harold masked a shudder of revulsion with another shrug. "Then you've expended a great deal of effort to delve into an empty well."

"On the contrary. I think you're a man of hidden depths. You're the only one who has ever truly challenged me."

"Defeated you," Harold countered. "Your own words, if I recall them correctly."

"A minor set-back. You cost me some money, but you gave me such an intriguing puzzle to pursue in exchange, that I should probably thank you."

"You have a strange way of showing your appreciation." Harold waved his hand in a gesture which encompassed both himself and the room. "Your hospitality is a bit...lacking. Or perhaps it's simply that you don't feel up to meeting an opponent on an even playing field."

The man laughed again. "I have been a poor host, haven't I? You'll have to forgive me. My enthusiasm for having you here has affected my manners. I understand the tranquilizer and the drops that were used to temporarily impair your vision can cause some nasty side effects. I should have at least offered you a cup of tea to soothe your throat, since I'm pressing you for conversation."

The figure in the chair shifted and there was a blur that could have been an arm reaching forward. Even though he suspected he wouldn't live long enough to appreciate it, Harold felt a surge of relief that his vision difficulties weren't permanent. That solace was countered by a fresh wave of dizziness. He closed his eyes and tried to engage his other senses, concentrating on the faint slosh of liquid, the scrape of porcelain against wood, the whisper of cloth and creak of metal.

The earthy fragrance of tea wafted up from the table. He kept his hands on his knees. He had learned a painful lesson when he had blithely accepted a drink from Jordan Hester. He wasn't about to potentially make himself more vulnerable than he already was.

"Tell me about yourself, Harold."

"I collect rare books...but I suspect you already know that."

"Yes, that was a unexpected piece of information. One that proved to be quite valuable. I was researching another target at the time. I didn't expect to discover it was someone you'd crossed paths with...someone like Sandra."

Harold felt every muscle in his body tense. He cursed himself for giving his adversary even that much of a reaction. 

"Ironic, really. After several weeks of fruitless searching, I found you in someone else's crosshairs. Not that he was looking for you for the same reason I was. He was trying to locate one of your associates. He seemed convinced he could find him by following you. I offered to help him...for a price. He was desperate enough to agree to my terms."

Harold remained stubbornly silent, but he couldn't ignore the feeling of disappointment that flooded him. One of their previous Numbers had given them up. Coerced into the act, yes, but it was betrayal just the same. 

Something small and dark thumped onto the table. 

"Should we call John and see if they connected? Or perhaps invite him to join us? You're not really carrying your side of the conversation, Harold. Maybe John's more of a talker. I'm sure I could persuade him to tell me some interesting things about you."

Harold stared at the dark blob, guessing it was his cell phone. He had cleared it, as he always did, before he had left the Library, and he had removed any trace of contact with The Machine. The 911 text had come from an unknown number. If it had been The Machine trying to warn him, there would be no trail Geist could follow. 

The one valid number in the phone's memory was John's. If Geist contacted Reese, he would come. For Harold's sake, John would deliver himself into this man's hands. 

No. Just...no. 

He would not be the cause of John's death. The icy tendrils of fear wrapping his lungs made it hard to breathe, but Harold managed to drag in enough air for an answer. 

"I help people...try to save them from mistakes, or from people like you."

"How noble," Geist murmured. "You seem the type. Not much profit in it, but then again, you don't seem to be hurting for money. A bespoke suit, platinum cufflinks, cutting edge communications technology, expensive taste in books...that suggests you're a man of substantial wealth."

"I spent a good part of my early life focused on making money," Harold said quietly. "Then I found something more important."

"That's a rich man's answer," the man sneered. "But you're more than that. You're off the grid. Invisible. You don't appear to have a regular place of business, or home. I couldn't find a trace of an electronic footprint that actually led anywhere."

Harold tried not to let the relief he felt show. If Geist, with all his resources, had come up empty, then the Library might still be safe. "I like my privacy," he responded flatly, "and I'm good with computers."

"I expect a better answer than that, Harold." 

Harold stared at him, desperately attempting to bring the man's features into focus, but the harder he tried, the more everything swam sickeningly. His eyes watered, blurring with tears. Furious, he swiped them away. 

"Then ask a question, instead of pontificating. You've proven you can find me. Abduct me. Threaten my friend's safely. I assume I'll be dead as soon as this conversation ends. Get to the point."

"You inserted yourself into my business at the call center. That should have been a clean operation, yet you sabotaged it."

"Your _business_ was kidnapping and murder. You threatened innocent lives. Someone had to stop you."

"But how did you know? That's the real question. In my business, information is everything. Information opens up opportunities, provides connections, and ultimately rewards. You appear to have a source I haven't tapped. I want to know what or who it is."

"It would be of no benefit to you," Harold answered coldly.

"And why is that?"

"Our purposes differ."

"You care about people. That's a weakness I don't have."

"Everyone has their vulnerabilities," Harold responded; half admission, half taunt.

"Yes, they do," Geist said. "Yours are...interesting."

The inference was chilling. Harold strove to remember the man had proven to be very good at mind games. Despite the discomfort the movement caused, he offered a small shrug.

Geist fell silent for a few moments, then his blurry form shifted. The scrape of chair legs signaled Geist rising to his feet. 

"Are you sure you won't reconsider sharing, Harold? I can still make that call to John."

At that moment Harold regretted every delay, every roadblock he had placed between them. He had been a fool, thinking they had time. 

He glared at Geist's blurry shape, determined to go down swinging. "That would be a grave mistake on your part."

"Oh?"

"He doesn't suffer fools gladly."

While he couldn't see the man's expression, the tension underscoring Geist's silence was satisfying.

"Very well." 

One of the shapes near the door moved forward, taking a position to Harold's left. He held himself still, waiting for the inevitable. 

"I told you I appreciate a challenge, Harold. I respect a worthy opponent."

Harold tried to focus, to catch at least one detail of the man that he could take to his grave with him, but it was a futile effort.

"I don't think I'll end our game just yet."

Prepared for the click of gun, Harold startled at Geist's words, and was caught off guard as something cold and sharp jabbed into his neck. He reached up to try to defend himself, but his hand was batted away and he was shoved to land sideways on the cot, his legs still hanging over the side. The awkward position sent a flare of pain from his hip coursing up his spine, and radiating out to his fingertips. Another push to his left shoulder laid him out flat. Whatever he'd been injected with quickly flooded his veins, blanketing him with weakness, sapping him of the ability to do more than simply fight to keep his eyes open.

A blurry shape loomed over him. He struggled to stay conscious, but the lethargy was growing. Geist's voice pursued him relentlessly. 

"I'm letting you live, Harold. For now. I'll be out there, tracking every step you take. Waiting for the perfect moment. You'll wake up every day, wondering if it's your last." 

The shape blurred further, filling Harold's field of vision until he felt like he was being smothered. His eyes drifted shut and he couldn't find the strength to raise them again. Warm breath slid across his cheek, a dark, smug voice whispered in his ear.

"I've gotten what I wanted from our meeting, Harold. Before we're done, I'll learn the rest of your secrets."

Something clicked in Harold's mind...panic spewing from the mental strongbox he could no longer keep locked. Geist's final threat was the last thing he heard before the darkness swallowed him.

"I'll be seeing you." 

**************


	7. Chapter 7

Reese dug through another file cabinet in the Library, searching for any remaining documentation on the call center case. Finch always shredded the information pertaining to the identities of their Numbers, but John was hoping there might be something left that would give them a way to find Geist. 

He was about to give up when he found a heavy folder at the back of one of the drawers. He spilled the contents on the table. There were two sealed plastic bags, one holding the pieces of a cell phone, the other containing a phone relay device like the one Shaw had discovered in Sinclair's possession. The only other items were a few sheets of paper filled with notes and diagrams in Finch's precise handwriting, and copies of police reports and court records.

"Nothing of any consequence, Finch?" John murmured, recalling the way Harold had shrugged off the final call from the 'ghost' who had eluded them.

He called Shaw. "Did you find Sandra and Aaron?"

_"They're both safe at the moment. Aaron's in school and the rest of his family is accounted for. I checked out their home. No signs of anything suspicious. I spoke directly to Sandra. She's at work. Nothing on her radar either. She'll be alert for trouble if it comes her way."_

Reese paged through the court records. "Harold was keeping tabs on the case against Gina Kincaid."

_"She hired Geist to cover up the murder her husband committed. Do you think we can get anything out of her?"_

"The last report Finch has is over a month old. At that point she was in maximum security holding, restricted visitation...at her lawyer's request. One of the other inmates tried to shank her."

_"What about the guy Harold stopped from killing Sandra?"_

John flipped open the police report, scanned the top sheet and shoved it away in disgust. "Found dead in his cell. No suspects."

_"Our 'ghost' doesn't like loose ends."_

"Finch still has the relay and the phone you picked up. Looks like he's been tinkering with it. Probably trying to see if he could trace Geist with it."

_"Anything we can use?"_

"Doesn't look like he made much headway."

" _Fusco got Sinclair on the road and headed to the precinct. He's going to keep working through that list of gun shops. Maybe something will break there."_

John didn't hold out much hope of tracking Geist that way, and he suspected Shaw was only offering the suggestion because she didn't want to admit they had hit another dead end. 

_"I'm going to swing by Sandra's apartment and check things out, just to cover all the bases. Then I'll start tracing the drugs that were used on Bear."_

Reese reached up to tap his earpiece and let his gaze drift around their workroom. 

It was like a tomb, the generator silent, dust motes hanging in the still air, Finch's first editions locked in gilded stasis, the bank of computer monitors blank, and Harold's chair...

...empty. 

John closed his eyes. It couldn't end this way. 

It _wouldn't_ end this way.

**************

Twenty minutes later, Reese stood on the park walkway where they had met after wrapping up the 911 case. It had been a clear, brisk morning, just as it was today...

_Aaron had been playing ball, bouncing back from his ordeal. Sandra had walked away with tears in her eyes, but a smile on her face. Finch had wanted her to have closure._

_Shaw had handed Harold the tethered relay and cell phone. Finch had pulled them apart and almost immediately received a..._

John's phone vibrated. Startled, he pulled it out of his pocket, stared at the display, momentarily stunned by the identity of the caller.

**FINCH**

Reese tapped his earpiece. "Harold, where--"

_"Sorry, John. Harold's not available right now."_

Reese pivoted slowly, scanning for any hint that the caller was close by. There were dozens of people on their cell phones in the immediate vicinity, and if Geist was using another of those phone relays, he could be calling from anywhere.

"You know, Geist, I was trying to give up killing people," Reese rasped softly. "I think I'll make an exception in your case."

_"Manners, John. Remember, I have something you want."_

John's jaw clenched. "Where is he?"

_"Sleeping."_

Reese desperately hoped that wasn't a euphemism for 'dead.' "What do you want?"

_"Such impatience. Harold was like that, too."_

John's breath caught. 

_"He and I have had a productive visit, but I'm a little disappointed. He's not much of a conversationalist."_

Mind games. Finch was still alive. John opened the tracking app on his phone. "Maybe it's the company he's keeping," Reese offered dryly. 

A cold laugh rippled across the line. 

John met it with an equally frigid one. "Tell you what. You let Harold go, I'll take his place. I'm sure I can keep you entertained."

_"You know, John, I suggested to Harold that you join us. For some reason, he seemed reluctant to accept my offer. He must think a great deal of you. He was willing to die, to keep you, and his secrets, safe."_

Ice was forming in Reese's veins. "My offer's good. Do we have a deal?"

_"Maybe next time."_

Click.

Reese's gaze was glued to his phone. The call had been terminated, but the app was still tracking in, the red dot pulsing at a location he knew well. 

 

*************

Fusco crossed another gun shop off the list, discouraged by the lack of results. He shuffled though a few case folders in an effort to appear as though he was doing actual police work. One of the unit clerks dropped a stack of paperwork in his in-box just as his cell phone chirped. He nodded a thank you to her and picked up the call.

"Yeah."

_"I've got a location on Harold's phone. Queensbridge Park. I need you to check any cameras the PD has access to. Finch might be there."_

Lionel rose from his desk and headed to the hallway that would take him to the elevator and the Live Crime Center. "It'll take a few." He edged quickly past a group of uniforms, murmuring an apology. 

_"Where in the park?"_

Fusco hesitated. That voice had been female. He was conferenced into both Reese and Shaw's phones. 

_"As fast as you can, Lionel."_

_"Where Bear meets his friend."_

_"I thought we weren't getting any signal from it?"_

_"It just went active. I got a call from Geist. It came in on Harold's line. The phone's stationary."_

_"Fusco did you get that?"_

He sorted through the rapid-fire exchange, picked up the comment that had been intended for him. "Where Bear meets his friend. Like that's a help. How about something more specific?" 

_"Near the dog run, Lionel."_

Fusco turned toward the stairs instead of the elevator. His destination was two floors up. The stairs would be faster. 

 

*************

Someone was shaking him by the shoulder and yelling in his ear. 

"Hey mister, you can't sleep here."

Harold blinked, saw a dark blur in front of him. Groggy, he blinked again.

The grip on his shoulder tightened. He pulled away instinctively.

"Whoa. Are you all right?"

Harold squinted in the direction of the voice. A cold breeze kissed his cheek. He shakily reached up to touch his face, bumping the frames of his glasses. 

"Sir?"

The fog in his mind began to dissipate and his eyes strove to focus. The dark blur became clearer...a uniform... a police officer. Beyond him...hazy shapes resolving into slightly more defined trees and grass. The ridged surface beneath him suddenly made sense. He was sitting on a bench. A park bench.

"Sir, do you need medical assistance?"

The officer's face was almost in focus. The man's hand hovered by the radio hooked to his shoulder.

"No. I..." 

Harold cleared his throat, desperate to buy a few more seconds to think. Geist... Geist hadn't killed him. 

But that didn't mean he was out of danger. 

He cleared his throat again. It gave him an idea and he was speaking almost before he even realized it, his raspy voice lending plausibility to the lie.

"I'm sorry, officer. I took some cold medication this morning. Before I headed off to work. It made me drowsy. I thought I'd just sit for a moment. I didn't mean to fall asleep."

The cop took a step back. "Where do you work?"

He offered the first answer that popped into his head. "Universal Heritage Insurance." He held his breath, hoping the man wouldn't ask for identification. He had no idea if he had his wallet, and if he did, it wouldn't bear scrutiny. Towhee didn't work at Universal.

"My neighbor's kid just got a policy through them at his new job." The officer's hand dropped away from the radio and his posture relaxed slightly.

Harold desperately hoped the man didn't press for insurance information. He couldn't sort an actuarial table from a baseball box score at the moment. "It's a very good company," he offered simply.

"You sure you don't want me to call an ambulance? You don't look so good."

An ambulance would mean a hospital...doctors posing questions he wasn't prepared to answer...tests...exposure...

"I appreciate your concern, Officer, but I'll be fine," he responded with as much certainty as he could muster. "I'll just sit for a few more moments, let my head clear, if that's all right with you?"

The man hesitated then nodded. "I'll be back around this way in about twenty minutes. If you're still here, I think we should call that ambulance."

"I'm sure it won't be necessary, but thank you."

The cop stood staring at him for a few more seconds, then turned and walked away.

Pulse thundering, Harold took several deep breaths, surreptitiously scanning his surroundings. His vision was improving. It wasn't normal yet, but it was a relief to be able to distinguish shapes. 

A part of Harold still couldn't believe he wasn't dead--the cowardly part of him almost wished he were. Death at least offered more peace than the frightening game Geist had promised. He could be in the park right now, watching. Geist was arrogantly confident enough to do it. A confidence that was well deserved, Harold thought bitterly. The reason for tampering with his vision was abundantly, horrifyingly clear. 

He couldn't identify Geist, or any of his men. His voice--Harold could pick that out of a crowd. But what he looked like? Geist could stand right next to him and he wouldn't recognize him.

Harold resolutely shoved that fear away. He had hidden from the government and its faceless assassins for years. Geist and his cohorts were just new additions to the list. He was alive, he was free, and he was going to stay that way.

Checking to make sure the police officer had moved out of range, he unobtrusively searched his pockets, resolutely ignoring the slight trembling of his hands. His wallet was missing, but his fingers clenched around a familiar object.

He had his phone. He could call John. Reese might already be tracking his location. He might be close...minutes away. 

Harold desperately needed to see him. 

Geist's words suddenly echoed menacingly in his head, freezing his fingers over the keypad. 

_**I'll be out there, tracking every step you take.** _

He shuddered and stared down at the phone in his grasp. It no longer seemed like a lifeline. His cell might have been cloned or bugged. 

He had no money. No identification to secure funds. It had to be an intentional move on Geist's part, to make him reach out for help.

He fought the urge to look around and kept his eyes locked on the phone in his hands. Calling John would make him a target. Contacting Miss Shaw or Detective Fusco would put them in the same danger. 

He could destroy the phone. Get to the Library. He had secure communications there, clean cell phones. Nearly impenetrable locks on the doors. 

He risked a glance at his surroundings. Queensbridge Park. His throat tightened. He was less than five miles from safety. Surely he could make it that far. 

But the Library might already be compromised. If it wasn't, he could end up giving Geist what he wanted: his secrets--the location of their headquarters, the files on the Numbers, his system. 

_**I'll be out there, tracking every step you take.** _

_Tracking..._

His skin crawled. 

Had Geist planted a tracker on him? 

He knew how small a tracking chip could be, how easy it was to hide one on something innocuous like a credit card, or on a piece of jewelry. He had engineered similar devices himself. Geist appeared to have resources that would allow him to procure the latest technology. If he had bugged him, it was probably attached to something Harold would have with him at all times. 

He pulled off his glasses, running his fingers along every part of the frame. There were no unfamiliar bumps or surfaces. His fingertips lingered over the spot where Reese typically placed his little toy. There was the tiniest indentation there, but it felt like something had been removed, not added. He slid the glasses back on. 

Shoes? No, like clothing, too easily changed. His watch? 

He started to slide the timepiece from his wrist...

_**I've gotten what I wanted from our meeting, Harold.** _

Their conversation had lasted only a brief time. Other than confirming his weakness was John's wellbeing, what else had Geist learned? 

Harold squeezed his eyes closed and struggled to recall every detail of their encounter. He had been unconscious except for the time in that white room. 

His skin crawled again. He half-rolled a shoulder, trying to shrug off the sensation.

The spot on his back burned. 

_**I like to get to know my opponents inside and out.** _

He went perfectly still, barely breathing. 

Not on him. 

In him. 

_**Before we're done, I'll learn the rest of your secrets.** _

Numb, he forced himself to think. 

The cufflink. His tie. The open button on his waistcoat. Evidence that he'd been at least partially undressed. 

It would have been a simple matter to tag him then, to inject a tracker under the skin. Placing it near an existing wound, like the site of the dart puncture, made coldly logical sense. He wouldn't think to question pain or discomfort from that location until it was too late.

He shivered as the breeze caressed his cheek again, the sensation provoking nightmarish bits of memory. _..blood...cold...hands..._

Those fragments weren't proof, but they fed his suspicions. _Something_ had been done to him while he'd been unconscious. 

Harold shuddered again.

He could be wrong. His mind could be playing tricks on him. Responding to Geist's threats.

But he couldn't risk it. 

If he was bugged, or if Geist, or one of his men was watching, he couldn't even borrow a phone or a computer without potentially endangering an innocent. 

He couldn't call John, or any of the others. 

Couldn't go near the Library, or any of their safe-houses. 

Not until he was sure.

He dropped his phone on the ground and smashed it with his foot, scooting the damaged casing under the bench. 

_Move._

He shoved himself to his feet, caught his balance against a wave of dizziness, and limped toward the park exit.

*****************


	8. Chapter 8

Shaw wove through traffic, trying to keep an eye on the pulsing dot on her phone. Suddenly it disappeared.

"Reese, I just lost the signal." 

_"I'm almost there. Make sure Fusco checks the cameras on the park entrances, in addition to the dog run."_

"We don't know what Geist looks like."

_"He's not looking for Geist. He's looking for Harold."_

"Just because Finch's phone's there, doesn't mean he is."

_"Geist didn't use a burner phone. He used Harold's. He had to know I'd track it."_

"He laid false trails before. What makes you think--"

_"Geist left the phone active. He wants us to find it...and whatever else he's left behind. Maybe Harold's there. Maybe it's just another clue to taunt us. The last thing Geist said to me was, 'Maybe next time.' This was a game to him and I think he's nearly finished with this round."_

"Reese, this guy's last move is usually murder."

There was a long stretch of silence before John answered. _"Then he better have a second grave ready."_

*****************

Harold paused to catch his breath in the entryway of a small curio shop, which hadn't yet opened for the day. He was three blocks from the park. The need to get out of the area pressed at him sharply. A bitter bark of a laugh almost broke free. If he was tagged, it didn't matter how far he ran. Until he removed or disabled the tracker, he was carrying a homing beacon. 

If he could get to one of the medical professionals he had set up for emergencies, they could extract it. Reaching one of them, without funds for transportation was problematic, and just the thought of being in a vulnerable position, in a stranger's hands, even one he had vetted...

He wasn't sure he could deal with that. 

He shifted his weight, grimacing as pain shot through his hip, neck, and upper back. He was going to have to handle this alone, and quickly. 

He could try to remove the tracker himself. Cut it out. The location on his upper back would make it tricky. He'd have to feel his way through it. 

The other option would be to disable it. A targeted electromagnetic pulse would probably do the trick, but he had no access to the necessary equipment and no money with which to purchase it. 

A crude version of an EMP generator, however, _could_ be constructed from fairly common items--things a well-stocked maintenance workshop would easily have. 

He glanced up the street, wincing at the glare of the bright morning sun bouncing off the steel and glass facades of the buildings lining the avenue. Light-sensitivity was still high, but his distance vision continued to improve. Near object sharpness was still wavering, pulsing in and out sickeningly. He had to concentrate hard to keep things from sliding out of focus. 

He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then opened them again, scanning the signs of the businesses. The overhang of a hotel marquee caught his eye. 

Harold merged into the steady stream of pedestrians now filling the sidewalks. The press of other bodies was unnerving; the hurried pace something he couldn't keep up for long. The spot in his upper back felt like the center of a bulls-eye. He forced himself to keep moving toward his goal. 

The Citation was a five-star hotel, a little gaudy for his taste, but he didn't intend to get a room. He squared his shoulders and walked with as little limp as possible past the bellhops, angling through the lobby toward the main bank of elevators; acting like he had every right in the world to be there, and hoping desperately no one would guess otherwise.

He stepped into the first open elevator car. The numbers on the buttons wavered even when he squinted, but they were arranged logically. Unfortunately there was no 'B' or down arrow. The guest elevators didn't go to the basement. He pressed the button for the second floor. To his relief, the doors closed immediately and he rode upward alone. 

As soon as the doors opened, he stepped out, checking left and right down the hallway. No one in sight. A red EXIT light glowed to his left, marking the door to the stairs. He limped to the opposite end of the corridor, searching for the elevator the housekeeping staff would use. The back of his neck prickled, urging both caution and speed. A few minutes later, he was stepping out of the service elevator into the hotel's basement. 

Hoping the working area of the hotel's layout was similar to the Coronet, he moved past the main housekeeping offices, the rumble of industrial washers and dryers a loud blessing. The sound would cover almost any noise he made. Down the corridor he found the room he sought, MAINTENANCE spelled out in bold capital letters on a black and white plaque. He breathed a sigh of relief that was short-lived. The door was locked. 

He rattled the knob in frustration. He needed to get in there. But how? He had nothing to pick the lock with, and he wasn't strong enough to force it open. John would just shoot out the lock, or smash it open somehow...

That thought had him moving toward a fire extinguisher mounted on the wall. He pulled it free and lugged it back to the door, slamming it down on the doorknob. The cheap knob broke and the panel swung inward. He snatched up the fragments of the doorknob and quickly stepped inside, shutting the door behind him and fumbling for a light switch.

Fluorescent bulbs flickered and buzzed before settling into a harsh blue-white glow. Shielding his eyes, he took a quick visual inventory. The workshop was tidy, with tools hanging on pegboard hooks along one wall, a long workbench, a wall-mounted first aid kit, and a set of shelves with baskets filled with odd parts and smaller tools. A row of lockers and a low bench suggested the room was also the dressing area for the maintenance crew. 

More incentive to work fast, before he was discovered. 

Propping the heavy fire extinguisher against the door, he shrugged painfully out of his coat and suit jacket, dropping them on the low bench. The baskets produced most of the items he required. He set them on the workbench and snagged a few tools from the hooks. 

He picked up a roll of thick copper wire and began to wrap it tightly around a long iron file, snugging the wraps close together and leaving a long length of the wire to protrude at each end. Setting his make-shift electromagnetic coil aside, he cut the end off an extension cord, and working mostly by feel, peeled the insulating covering back to expose the wires. He grabbed the small switch which would serve as a capacitor relay, and wrapped the wires from the extension cord around the switch's connection posts. 

Sweat stung his eyes. He blinked it away. He fumbled with the screwdriver, but finally managed to tighten the connector post screws and attach the copper wire ends from the coil to the switch's other set of posts. Plugging the extension cord in the nearest outlet, he leaned heavily against the workbench for a moment, studying his cobbled-together device. 

The principal was a simple one. Once he flipped the switch, the AC current would travel to the electromagnetic copper coil, causing an electrical pulse to emanate from the device. The length of the iron file would increase the radius of the EM pulse and the heavy copper wire would give it more power. Placing the device over the site of the tracker should cause the bug to blow, or at least fry it _in situ._

He shed his waistcoat, tie, shirt and undershirt. Donning a pair of insulated gloves, he gripped the end of the file in his left hand and reached behind him, bringing the coil into position against his upper back, directly over where the dart had impacted. Bracing himself against the workbench, he took a deep breath and flipped the switch. 

Fire burned his skin and jangled his nerves as the electric current discharged. He clenched his teeth and endured. He toggled the switch, dragged in a breath. Repeated the process. Blearily, he started to wonder if he'd been wrong. He shifted the position of the coil a little closer to his spine and gave it one more attempt. The jolt of an electrical shock rattled him from head to toe, and a sizzling 'pop' forced a gasp of pain. 

He sagged, breathing hard, and let the file clatter to the floor. Something warm trickled down his back. He pulled off the gloves. 

Using the workbench for support, he worked his way to the first aid kit. He grabbed the largest self-adhering bandage he could find and limped over to drop onto the bench in front of the lockers. He pressed his undershirt awkwardly against the raw patch on his back, grimacing at the contact of cotton against abused flesh. After a moment he let it slip to the floor, not surprised to see it stained red. He ripped open the bandage packaging and tried to maneuver the bandage into place to cover the worst of the damage. His hands shook as he pulled on his clothing and coat. 

Time pressed at him. With the tracker disabled so quickly, Geist might come after him again--might have someone nearby ready to follow him even without it. He needed to put space between himself and this location--more distance than he could achieve on foot. 

He eyed the lockers. He wasn't a thief, but he _was_ desperate. He opened the closest one. There was a wallet on the top shelf. He rifled through it, pulling out the cash. 

************

John stood next to the same bench where Finch had smashed the watch from Pierce, the shattered remains of Harold's cell phone in his hand. 

He scanned the park, but there was no sign of Finch. 

Dead or alive. 

Geist had wanted him here. He was sure of it. But for what purpose? 

"You looking for someone?"

Reese turned to find a uniformed police officer standing a few feet away. He slid Harold's broken phone into his pocket and nodded slowly. "A friend."

"Mid-fifties? Dressed sharp?"

That description matched a good portion of Manhattan's male population, but John didn't believe in coincidence. 

"Could be him," he said, hoping the cop might provide some details.

"There was a guy here earlier. I found him asleep on the bench during my earlier rounds. If it was your friend, I'd check on him. He was pretty out of it at first. I almost called an ambulance for him." 

Reese tried not to react. Harold was alive. Possibly drugged or injured, but in good enough shape to move since he was no longer here.

John's phone chimed with a text. He glanced at the message from Fusco, hope soaring further.

_**FINCH NORTH EXIT 08:52** _

He offered the officer a small smile. "Speak of the devil. Looks like my friend isn't the man you saw. Mine's waiting for me near the north gate."

"Have a good day, then," the cop said and walked past him. 

Reese headed down the walking path at a jog, calling up Fusco's number on his phone.

"Talk to me, Lionel."

***********

Harold paid for the cab, handing over more than half his stolen funds. The driver gave him an irritated glare when he asked for his change. When it was clear no tip was forthcoming, the cabbie pulled away from the curb with a screech.

Limping heavily, Harold moved slowly down the sidewalk, trying to ignore the stares he was drawing. He realized with a lurch that his overcoat was probably worth more than some of the cars parked along the curbs. He hadn't really been thinking when he had gotten into the taxi. He had simply picked a direction that would take him away from the hotel and the Library, and watched the meter until it had reached the amount he could afford to spend without using up all the cash in his possession.

He continued his progress up the street, hoping for some place to take refuge. The adrenaline surge that had propelled him from the hotel had faded. The tremors in his muscles and pain in his joints signaled that he was near the end of his endurance. It wasn't just the lingering effect of the eye drops causing his vision to blur now. 

A bump to his shoulder knocked him sideways. He grabbed onto the closest stationary object as someone rushed past him, cursing. He dragged in a breath. He had to get off the street. He needed...

He was hanging on for dear life to exactly what he needed. A public phone booth. 

The urge to hear Reese's voice was so strong, he reached for the handset. The spiraled metal cord was dented and half-frayed. The device might not even work. 

The change from his cab ride was heavy in pocket. The wound on his back pulsed, a painful reminder of Geist's threats. 

He leaned his throbbing head against the booth, torn between the compulsion to call his partner for help, and the instinct that demanded he handle this alone and not risk anyone else.

For so many years he had relied only on himself. Hidden. Kept his secrets close. And then he'd found Reese...and slowly he'd begun to find comfort in a partnership and a friendship; to drop some barriers, knowing there was someone to lean on. Someone to trust. 

John Reese was a safe harbor in a world that held so few.

A safe harbor was what he needed right now.

And John needed to be warned.

He slid the coins into the slot. 

 

*********

Reese ground to a stop. His foot search of the streets near the north end of the park had come up empty. Shaw was tracing the shortest path to the Library, but hadn't reported in with any success, either. Where the hell had Harold gone? Why hadn't he contacted one of them? 

His phone buzzed, showing a number he didn't recognize. He answered it immediately.

"Finch?"

Silence...no, someone was on the line, there was faint background noise, the sound of uneven breathing.

" _Mr. Reese..."_

Soft and slightly unsteady, but it was his partner's voice.

"Harold." John swallowed hard against the surge of relief that tightened his throat. "Where are you?"

_"Trying to stay a step ahead of a ghost."_

An evasive answer. Not a good sign. He tapped his earpiece to pick up Harold's call and sent a text to Shaw.

"I can help with that." 

_"Your assistance...would be greatly appreciated. Unfortunately it's not a simple matter."_

"We know about Geist, Harold."

_"Then you're aware he is an adversary we cannot afford to underestimate."_

"I know he took you. Hurt you."

_"I'm not...seriously injured, John. Although, I admit to having had better days."_

More evasion. The hesitant admission meant Finch's injuries weren't life threatening, but the cop at the park had been ready to call an ambulance for him. His partner sounded exhausted. At the end of his limits. "Harold, you need to tell me where you are."

No response. Reese strained to pick up any clue to Finch's location from the sounds filtering through the phone. He could hear traffic noises, the rumble of voices, but nothing distinct enough to pinpoint where he was.

"I know you were at the park. I tracked your phone there. I'm not far from the north gates--"

_"You need to get away from there. Geist could have people in the area. He could be there."_

There was genuine fear in his partner's voice. "Harold--"

_"He's dangerous, John."_

"So am I." 

Finch made a strangled sound, half gasp, half laugh. _"Would it be cowardly of me to admit that I depend on that?"_

John's jaw clenched. "I promise you, Harold. He's not going to get near you again."

_"It's good to hear your voice."_

John's breath caught at the soft, unexpected admission. "Yours too. I'd prefer to have the rest of this conversation in person, though." 

_"Is Bear all right?"_

"He's fine. It's you I'm worried about right now. Please. Let me come and get you."

_"You can't. Not until I'm sure."_

John's worry ratcheted up another notch. "Sure of what?" Silence again. "Harold. Talk to me. Tell me what's going on. What do you need to be sure of?"

_"Information, first. How did you find out about Geist?"_

The last thing he wanted to do was tell Finch one of their Numbers had betrayed him. "That doesn't matter right now. We need to get you--"

_"John, please. Everything could be in jeopardy. Tell me."_

Reese hesitated for only a moment. "Logan Pierce." 

A soft sigh whispered in his ear. _"The Number The Machine sent--"_

"Was a repeat. You were right. Pierce cut a deal with Geist. You, in exchange for help getting out of some trouble he was in." 

_"He had someone following me. Do you know for how long?"_

"Long enough to find your book broker. That's where Geist picked up your trail."

_"Not the Library? It's still secure? You're certain?"_

"I was there. It's just the way you left it. Look, we can deal with Pierce and Geist later. Tell me where you are. Let me get you someplace safe."

_"There might not **be** any place that's safe. Geist let me go, but he's not done."_

"What do you mean?"

_"He deals in information. He wants to know our source. He released me, hoping I'd lead him to it. He...tagged me. Planted a subcutaneous tracker. I found one. It's possible there could be another, or he has someone on my trail. I might still be compromised."_

Reese battled back a surge of anger, strove to keep his voice calm. "All the more reason to tell me where you are. If there's another tracker, I can help you find it." 

_"I need to keep moving. I can't stay in one place for long. I just...I needed to warn you. "_

Reese switched gears, anxious to get Harold thinking and out of flight mode. "The bug you found. Is it an RFID chip?" 

_"I...I'm not sure."_

"Passive or active?" 

_"I don't know. I fried it."_

John winced. Subcutaneous trackers were meant to be extracted, not disabled while still in the body. "I'll bring a scanner and some fresh clothes." And medical supplies. "We'll make sure you're clear before we go anywhere near the Library." 

_"You could leave the scanner somewhere for me. Once I'm certain--"_

"You know I'm not going to do that, Harold," John countered firmly. "I'm not leaving you out there on your own. Now tell me where you are, or I'll tear the city apart until I find you." 

The screech of tires and a loud truck horn blared in Reese's ear. Finch was on the street somewhere. In the open. 

_"He knows about you, John. He threatened... He said he'd be watching. If I'm still tagged...I'll lead him right to you."_

"I don't care. Trust me, Harold," Reese said softly. "Let me bring you home." 

There was a long stretch of silence. 

_"Queens Boulevard and 39th. Long Island City."_

John was already running toward his car. He knew that area. It was filled with cheap bars and even cheaper hotels. Finch would stand out like a sore thumb. 

"There's a small hotel right down the street. The Fleeson. They take cash and don't ask any questions. Can you get there?" 

_"Yes, but--"_

"It's not up to your normal standards, but it's pretty clean and there are good locks on the doors." John reached his sedan, slid behind the wheel. He jammed the key into the ignition. With a twist, the engine roared to life. 

_"I'm without my normal resources. I had to resort to thievery to acquire money for the cab to get me here. I have less than forty dollars left."_

"That'll be enough. You're not going to be there long." 

_"John--"_

Reese shot out into traffic. "Get to the hotel, Harold. Lock the door. Wait for me." 

_"Be safe, John."_

His earpiece clicked. Finch had hung up. "You too, Harold" he whispered. He tapped his phone. "Shaw?" 

_"I heard,"_ her voice was grim. _"Go. I'm not far from the Library. I'll grab what we need, and meet you there."_

"Bring new phones. I'm dumping this one. Finch keeps most of the electronics in the cabinet by the--" 

_"Reese. Just get to Harold."_

Call Fusco. Depending on what I find, we might need to hide some evidence." 


	9. Chapter 9

John used the pass key he had lifted from the front desk and let himself into the room, his Sig-Sauer in his right hand, held close to his leg, a soft, "It's Reese," preceding him. The shabby hotel room was softly lit, only a sliver of daylight from the gap in the drawn curtains and the glow from a lamp providing illumination. Harold was seated in a threadbare upholstered armchair, overcoat buttoned to his chin.

John holstered his weapon, flipped the lock, and started to cross the room. Finch raised one hand, halting him a few feet away.

"Is it safe to remain here?" Harold's voice betrayed a faint tremor. 

John eyed him worriedly and nodded. Finch lowered his hand. Reese took that as his cue and quickly crossed the room. Dropping to one knee at the side of the chair, he gently placed a hand on his friend's arm. He felt the muscles in Finch's forearm tense, then relax. 

Harold twisted slightly toward him. "You're a stubborn man, Mr. Reese."

Relief tipped John's lips in a small, quick grin. "I learned all my bad habits from you."

Harold blinked rapidly and shifted his head backward a fraction. Behind the lenses of his glasses, Finch's eyes were red and watery, and the movement suggested he was having trouble focusing. 

"It's all right, John," Harold murmured, apparently reading his mind. "They're getting better."

Reese tensed. "Geist did something to your eyes." 

"It's not permanent."

That was for an expert to determine. "We need to get you to a doctor." 

Reese started to rise. Harold's other hand came down to cover his.

"I'm still having a little trouble focusing. That's all. It's immensely better."

There was more than a hint of desperation in Finch's voice and grip. John settled back into place. "Shaw's bringing everything we need," he said quietly.

Finch's gaze flicked to the door. "Perhaps you should wait--"

"I'm not going anywhere, Harold." Muscles bunched under John's hand. "Shaw will take the watch when she gets here. She won't let anyone surprise us."

"We'll need to check everything. My clothing, my--"

Reese squeezed his arm. Finch subsided. 

John let the silence settle between them. He wanted to ask about the tracker, deal with the wound, wrap his arms around him and never let him go, but he resisted. Harold seemed to be riding the edge of control and he didn't want to be the one that pushed him off.

"You'd tell me," he said quietly, "if there was something else I needed to know." 

Harold's gaze shifted to him, then away. "I don't imagine this...establishment offers room service."

John pulled a bottle of water out of his coat pocket and handed it to his friend. "I'm sure you'd prefer tea, but--"

"No." Finch held the plastic bottle in a white-knuckled grip. "This...this will be fine. Thank you."

Reese frowned, but lifted his hand off Harold's arm so he could open the bottle, noting the tremors shaking his hands. Finch took a small sip, then several longer ones before twisting the cap back into place. John took the bottle and set it on the floor. He was about to place his hand back on Harold's arm, but the older man shifted and started to push himself to his feet. Reese rose at the same time, ready to offer a steadying grip. Finch's minute flinch away made him drop back a step. 

Half-turned away from him, Harold unbuttoned his coat and slipped it off, taking an uneven step toward a small table. He laid the garment down, then took off his suit coat. Cufflinks followed, thudding dully on the table's wooden top. 

"The tracker was imbedded in my upper back," Harold said quietly, voice devoid of any emotion. "Where I was struck with the dart. I've taken care of it."

He eased out of his waistcoat with careful movements. Reese clenched his teeth to keep from reacting verbally to the sight of blood staining the back of Harold's shirt. 

The vest was dropped to the table. A slither of silk joined it. 

Finch turned slightly, gaze fixed on the floor. "Will I need to...?"

Reese sensed his very private friend's uneasiness, knew he was reluctant to disrobe further. "Only if we pick something up," he hastened to assure him. 

There was a soft knock on the door, startling them both. Reese drew his weapon and crossed the room. A quiet voice on the other side of the door confirmed Shaw's arrival. 

 

********* 

Sam slipped into the room, warned by Reese's tight expression. Her gaze locked onto Finch. She let the relief she felt warm her simple greeting. 

"Harold."

"Miss Shaw."

Harold's response was his typical, proper one, but flat. She took a moment to study his haggard appearance and tense posture, then glanced back at Reese. John's expression wasn't giving much away, but his eyes were dark with anger and worry.

Sam slid the duffle she was carrying off her shoulder and handed it to him. She looked back at Harold, struck by how slight he looked without his normal suited layers. 

"It's good to have you back, Finch," she said quietly. 

Harold gave her a short, guarded nod, his eyes flicking to John. It was obvious he was uncomfortable with her presence. She bit back the questions she wanted to ask and turned to the door.

"I'll be outside," she murmured to Reese. 

He offered a nod, but his attention was clearly on Finch. She stepped out into the hallway, heard the lock click into place behind her. 

She planted herself at the end of the hallway near a window that gave her a view of the street, the stairwell door, and Harold’s room just a few yards away. 

No one was getting past her. 

***********

Reese paced the small hotel room, habit making him stop at the window and check their surroundings each time he passed it, despite knowing that Shaw was watching their backs. Finch had disappeared into the tiny bathroom ten minutes earlier with the clothing Shaw had brought, and had yet to emerge. 

They had found no other tracking devices. There had been some tense moments when John had held the scanner near Harold's neck and hip, but adjusting the sophisticated instrument revealed it was picking up titanium screws and wires, not a bug. Harold hadn't needed to peel off any more clothing layers, but he had been insistent Reese read the area on his back several times before accepting he was clear of any surveillance devices. 

John was deeply worried. He hadn't expected Finch to fall apart, but the man was almost too calm. Too detached. He had shut off his emotions and was running on autopilot. They had him back, physically, but it felt like a part of him was still beyond their reach. 

Reese itched to get them moving and into one of their safe-houses. Finch needed rest, something to eat and drink; somewhere he felt secure to process what had happened. And they had to talk. Reese didn't want to press too hard, too fast, but he needed whatever information Harold had on his kidnapper, in order to keep him safe.

Finding and ending the bastard would go a long way toward that objective.

The bathroom door opened, and Finch stepped out, freshly attired in a new suit. The shirt and pants he had been wearing were in a tight bundle, which he dropped on the table with the items he had removed earlier. He immediately stepped away and crossed to the far side of the room, opposite Reese. 

Putting distance between them. John didn't like that at all, but he remained where he stood.

"We need to debrief," Finch said tightly, not quite meeting his gaze. "Can we risk going to the Library?"

Reese hesitated. Harold was volunteering to talk--a far cry from his behavior after John had retrieved him from Root. He wasn't sure if that was a positive change. "A safe-house for now. You can rest for a while, and then we'll talk."

"I'd rather not wait."

Reese nodded. "We can go whenever you're ready. The car's right outside. I'll make sure we're not followed."

Harold glanced at the table where his clothes were piled, but made no move toward them. "We should--"

"Shaw will take care of it."

Finch shifted his weight slightly, uneasy. "There's another location she'll need to visit. The Citation Hotel. I left...there's evidence there which should be removed."

John assumed that was where Harold had fried the tracker. "What room?"

"The maintenance workshop. In the basement. It had the items I needed." He finally looked directly at Reese. "I had to break in. And I took eighty dollars from a wallet in one of the lockers."

"Lionel will make sure there's nothing that ties back to you, if they report it."

Finch nodded.

John picked up his black coat and took a step forward, offering it to Harold. He didn't move to take it. 

"It's cold out there," Reese said quietly. He nodded toward the coat on the table. "I know you don't want to wear that one." 

Finch hesitated, then finally stepped forward, turning slightly so Reese could help him slip into the coat. The garment seemed to swamp the older man, but as he turned to face John, Harold's eyes warmed with appreciation. 

Reese reached forward to smooth the set of the coat over his friend's shoulders, surprised to find his hands trembling. A shudder rippled through Harold at the contact. John started to pull back, but Harold's hands came up and fisted in the lapels of his suit coat, holding him in place. 

"John..."

That one whispered word held so much--gratitude, longing, desparation, even a trace of fear. Reese wanted to pull him closer, but he settled for sliding his hands down Harold's upper arms, letting them rest there against tremoring muscles. For a moment, John thought Finch was going to push him away. Instead, Harold held on, not moving closer, but not flinching either, when Reese's grip tightened slightly. 

John's world, which had shifted off axis since Harold had been taken, resumed a steady spin. His partner was far from whole, their future uncertain. But for now, they both existed. At this moment, it was enough.

 

**************************

Despite Harold's preference to 'get it over with', the debriefing was delayed while Shaw and Fusco handled the cleanup Finch had requested. 

John managed to get some more water and a few spoonful’s of soup into him, but Harold declined his suggestion to lay down and rest, opting for one of the comfortable stuffed chairs in the townhouse's living room. 

Finch settled himself into the chair at a slight angle. After tucking his glasses into the inside pocket of his suit coat, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Reese did a second quick check of the house before taking up a position at the window where he could watch the street, and keep an eye on his friend. 

It was evident Harold hadn't been sleeping when he pushed himself to his feet just seconds after John moved to open the door. By the time Reese returned with their associates, Shaw looking particularly grim, Finch had seated himself at the table in the adjoining dining room, choosing a chair at the end of the table that put a wall at his back. John took the seat to Harold's right. 

Finch was quietly gracious in his thanks to Shaw and Fusco for their efforts, but firm in his rejection of Shaw's carefully phrased questions about possible injuries. 

Their discussion generated little information they could use to pursue Finch's abductor. Harold couldn't identify Geist or the two guards, and said he remembered nothing about the time he had spent as the man's prisoner except for the period he had been in the white room. Finch had been stiffly reserved, but thorough when he repeated the conversation he'd had with his captor. The details he offered regarding what he had done after awakening in the park were sketchier. To Reese's surprise, Shaw was the one to cut that aspect of the interrogation short, diverting the conversation back to John and asking him to elaborate on his phone call with Geist. 

Harold had grown pale as Reese gave an edited version of his brief conversation with their 'ghost', and while he listened keenly to the tale of their search, he asked few questions, other than to inquire about the safety of Professor Sinclair. It was agreed that the Dickens' manuscript would be offered in a very public auction, hopefully giving Geist no reason to go after the book broker. John had been prepared to dissuade Finch from suggesting they protect Logan Pierce, but other than a murmured comment that the man bore watching, Harold let the issue drop. 

When Harold shifted gingerly in his chair and reached up to adjust his glasses for the third time, Reese brought the conversation to an end. Finch retreated to one the bedrooms. 

A short discussion between the three of them had divided the task of tying up loose ends. Lionel would continue to work his way through the list of gun shops and would keep an eye on arrivals at the morgue. Pierce's man had details about Finch, and while both Reese and Shaw presumed he was dead, they'd both wanted that assumption confirmed. Shaw would chase the pharmaceutical angle to see if she could track down where the drugs that had been used on Bear had been purchased, and by whom. Reese was more than eager to crack a few Russian skulls to see if Geist had ties to the group Pierce had been doing business with, but resolved to wait until Finch was settled safely within the Library's walls.

Once Fusco had taken off, Reese and Shaw had a longer discussion about the threat Geist posed, both frustrated by the absence of any leads of substance. It wasn't in either of their natures to leave a dangerous enemy on the loose. 

Shaw also shared with Reese what she had discovered in the hotel's workshop. The bloodstained shirt and crude device Harold had used to destroy the tracker made John's blood boil.

He asked Shaw to stay and keep on eye on Finch, then drove to a warehouse in an area of the city where the sound of gunshots would raise no immediate alarms.

Reese spent an hour firing every round of ammunition he had in his black bag, obliterating an imaginary figure of their 'ghost', and a good chunk of one of the warehouse's walls, before returning to the safe-house and taking the late watch.

 

***************

Harold breathed a sigh of relief at the low rumble of voices announcing John's return. When he had heard Reese leave earlier, he had feared he intended to try to track down Geist, despite the lack of obvious clues. The fury bubbling under the surface of John's reserved demeanor during their debriefing had been nearly tangible. An explosion waiting to happen. Thankfully, his absence had been short and he had returned, presumably, in one piece. 

Harold eased the bedroom door closed and leaned against the panel. He was bone tired, at that strange level of exhaustion where the body wanted to collapse, but the mind kept pushing it to move. He hurt everywhere, joints aching, muscles twitching with involuntary spasms as over-stimulated nerves misfired. The muscle relaxant he had swallowed earlier hadn't made a dent. There was a bottle of strong painkillers in the en suite bathroom. Two of those would knock him out for hours. 

The combination of sleep and a silent mind was an attractive proposition, but it carried with it too many vulnerabilities. He was leery of adding more drugs to his system, unsure whether what Geist had given him was still circulating in his bloodstream. He felt dull, washed out. It could be another symptom of exhaustion, but he didn't want to chance it.

And his mind was seldom silent, even in a drug-induced slumber. Dreams could become nightmares and he had enough of those plaguing him while he was awake.

Muffled footsteps sounded in the hallway, a measured stalking pace he recognized as John's. They halted outside the bedroom door. Harold held his breath, torn between wanting Reese to come in, and fearful that he would. 

It had taken everything he had to latch onto John in that cheap hotel room. He had wanted to bury himself in the man. Yet he hadn't been able to take that step into his arms. There were no more trackers hidden in his body, but something was implanted in his subconscious--lurking...creating just enough surface contact to make his skin crawl and his mind skitter. 

Geist and his head games. His insinuations. Supported by a backward cufflink and an ill-tied length of silk. 

Footsteps again...John moving on. Harold reached toward the doorknob. His hand shook, the trembling worse than normal. He pulled it back. He didn't want John to see him like this, weak and shaking like a leaf. He shoved away from the door. 

He ran the shower as hot as he could stand it, scrubbing away what felt like years of sweat and grime. The heat helped his knotted muscles, but played havoc with the damaged area on his back. It was a tradeoff he accepted dispassionately. 

He traded on that same numb grimness as he examined his body. He had bruises on his arms, legs and torso, most likely from being manhandled during his abduction. He was dimly relieved to find only the three puncture wounds he was already aware of--one in each arm and the one on the side of his neck. Other than a dark residue which he had scrubbed away from under the nailbed of several fingers, he found no other markers to satisfy his need for evidence. 

He sluiced off the fresh residue of fear sweat and shut down the shower. Toweling himself dry, he refrained from looking in the mirror. He applied a new bandage to his back from the kit below the bathroom sink and stepped out in search of new clothes. 

He opted for another suit, aware he was yielding to insecurity, but not caring. Pausing at the closed door to the hallway, he spent several minutes listening intently. The safe-house was quiet. John would undoubtedly pace the townhouse several times during the rest of the night, checking the perimeter, making sure everything was secure, but for now he must be settled somewhere on watch. 

That knowledge was beyond comforting, but it also made him angry--at Geist and his machinations, at himself for craving the solace of protection.

He limped across the room and switched on the floor lamp near a comfortable armchair, then went back to turn off the overhead lights. His vision was almost back to normal, but the softer illumination was a relief. Settling gingerly into the chair, he allowed himself to just breathe for a few minutes before reaching for the water bottle on the side table. He forced himself to take small measured sips, striving to keep his mind blank.

When he had drunk half of it, he set it aside, picking up the new cell phone Miss Shaw had brought for him, hoping to keep himself occupied with practical tasks. Unfortunately it brought Geist front and center again. Since Geist had had access to his old phone, he would have to consider anything that was on it as compromised. Apps for his personal counter-surveillance measures carried heavy encryption, but with enough time and effort, they could potentially be accessed. He was damned if Geist would have the opportunity to use his own programming against him. He would have to write new ones and update the security on all of their phones. 

The application to remotely retrieve the codes for a new Number would have to go as well, but he wouldn't recreate that one. Despite his best intentions, he never should have written it. Hadn't he told Nathan any exploit was a total exploit? Convenience couldn't outweigh the need to keep The Machine safe and inaccessible. They would have to rely on tried and true methods. 

The thought of standing out on the street, exposed, made him shudder. 

Geist would have to be dealt with. He represented a danger to John and to their work. He had already gotten too close. He couldn't be allowed to get any closer. They couldn't afford to let him slip away again. Finding him, though, was going to be nearly impossible. Despite intensive investigation after the call center case, he hadn't been able to find any trace of their 'ghost'. He had nothing new to go on, other than the red herrings Geist had strewn to make John stumble in his efforts to trace him. 

_**I like to get to know my opponents inside and out...** _

Harold grimaced at the reminder and rubbed gingerly at the crook of his arm. Planting the tracker on him had been invasive enough, but his subconscious and a few pieces of physical evidence were telling him there was more that Geist had done. Had...taken. There _were_ new clues to follow. Medical procedures and drugs, even illicit ones, were traceable. Labs kept records. Even if the original files were deleted, digital footprints remained, if one knew how, and where to look for them. 

It turned his stomach to even think of pursuing this. Yet the uncertainty, the suspicions he carried, would eat him alive if he didn't resolve them. There would be no future for he and John, and he would be crippled as an active partner in their work.

He pocketed the phone and picked up the slim laptop he had set within reach earlier. He held it in his lap, hands trembling on its surface. Once he started down this path, there would be no stopping. It was the way his mind worked. Once presented with a puzzle, he would pursue it until every piece fit precisely into place. While that had meant exciting breakthroughs in the past, he didn't try to fool himself that there would be light at the end of this tunnel. 

It was only going to get darker.


	10. Chapter 10

John flipped another page in his book, ostensibly reading, but covertly keeping an eye out for his partner who had disappeared into the dusty stacks of the Library ten minutes earlier. Three days had passed since they'd recovered and debriefed Harold. Instead of improving, the situation was deteriorating.

Reese had watched him closely, expecting a reemergence of the PTSD Finch had battled after Root had kidnapped him the first time, but hoping his partner had learned something from that experience. Primarily the need to rely on those he could trust. 

Trust, however, seemed a distant memory. Harold had increasingly walled himself off. Reese was the only one that could get within three feet of him without causing a flinch. Even Bear had received a pale greeting when Shaw retrieved him from the vet. 

He seemed reluctant to talk to anyone outside of John on the coms, rebuffing Fusco's attempts to reconnect with a tersely worded text. He appeared intent on keeping Shaw and John busy on inconsequential missions--following up on old Numbers, checking camera angles on surveillance cams--and on the opposite side of the locked upper gate. Neither Reese nor Shaw had fallen for that ploy, one of them remaining just out of sight of the Library's exterior cameras at all times, the other finding an excuse Finch couldn't argue with to remain somewhere in the building. 

Shaw had spent time fussing over Bear. John had cleaned a lot of weapons. 

Since arriving from the safe-house, Harold had yet to leave the Library. Eyes narrowing warily at any suggestion that would take him beyond its fortified walls, he would simply turn back to his bank of computer monitors, effectively shutting everyone out. Reese knew he was trying to trace Geist. The single Number they had worked in the interim had been an easy one, certainly not requiring the hours of computer time Harold was putting in. Finch wasn't sharing though, blanking the screens whenever anyone came near. 

The only normality was Harold's attire, and even that had an odd wrinkle. He had to have a closet full of suits stashed in a room in the Library that Reese had yet to discover, because each morning when John arrived, Finch was impeccably dressed in a new one. The colors were extremely somber though, and the waistcoats were snug. He never removed his suit jacket, buttoning it every time he stood. Even the ties he chose were dark and knotted tight. 

Shaw had blown out of the Library an hour earlier, Bear in tow, beyond frustrated with the man. Finch claimed his vision had returned to normal and politely rebuffed any other queries as to his health. She had pulled Reese aside, reminding him that the blood evidence she had found meant Harold had injuries hidden under his bespoke layers. Damage he probably wasn't treating appropriately.

Reese's assigned mission for the evening was to convince Finch to visit one of his well-paid and very discrete physicians. John was in full agreement with the plan, but he wasn't confident he could get Harold to step a foot beyond the upper gate, much less get him out the door. At least not without using force, and laying his hands on his friend with that intent wasn't something Reese could stomach. 

Finch suddenly emerged from the shadows between two tall bookcases. He limped over and placed a gun on the table in front of John.

"Show me how use this," he said brusquely.

Reese eyed the Sig-Sauer that had undoubtedly come from his weapons cache in the Library. This wasn't a move he'd expected. "Why?"

"That should be evident."

What was evident was that a crisis point had been reached. "You don't like guns, Finch."

Harold tugged nervously at his suit jacket. "That's immaterial."

Reese set his book aside and nodded toward the weapon. "Having this wouldn't have stopped what happened. It won't keep him from coming after you again."

"You don't know that."

Reese stared at him impassively, unwilling to feed the argument.

Finch reached for the pistol. "Perhaps Miss Shaw--"

John's right hand came down on top of Harold's, trapping it firmly against the cold metal, pinning the weapon to the tabletop.

"Finch."

The older man remained mulishly silent, his gaze locked on their hands, fingers clenched around the pistol's grip. 

_"Harold."_

Pale blue eyes flashed up to meet his. Reese held that gaze and slowly rose to his feet, tightening his grip just a fraction to make sure the pistol stayed put. Slowly, so as not to startle his skittish friend, he reached out with his other hand and wrapped his fingers around the older man's wrist. Finch's pulse pounded hard and fast under his fingertips. He squeezed gently, the pressure surprisingly enough to make Harold release his hold on the weapon. 

When he tried to pull free of John's grasp, Reese held fast. 

"Don't let him do this to you. Don't play his game."

Finch jerked his hand away angrily. "Is that what this was to you? A game?" 

"It's what it is to him. You beat him before and it stung. Geist took you to prove he could do it. Tagging you with the tracker? That's him counting coup, not just trying to discover your secrets. He wanted to frighten you. He wants you benched. Out of his way."

Harold visibly paled. "Our work doesn't allow me to sit on the sidelines. I need--" He turned away, took a single step and halted, hands clenched into fists at his sides. He stood so straight and stiff John could almost feel the pain radiating up and down his own spine. 

When Finch finally turned back to face him, his expression was a mixture of confusion, laced with a touch of despair. He gestured weakly toward the pistol on the table. 

"Why won't you help me with this?"

If teaching Harold to handle a weapon would solve the problems his friend was facing, Reese would have done it in a heartbeat. But it wasn't the answer. Whatever had driven Finch to place that pistol on the table had shaken the man to his core. Harold had said that he had told them everything, but Reese had suspected, based on Finch's increasingly paranoid behavior, that something had been held back. Whatever it was, was surfacing.

"A gun in your hand doesn't give you courage," he said quietly.

Harold's gaze slid away. His fingers plucked at the buttons on his vest, as if testing their ability to keep his secrets locked down. 

Reese leaned over and picked up the Sig. The weapon fit comfortably in his hand, like an old friend, but the ugly memories its use carried weren't a burden he wanted for _his_ friend. He waited patiently until the silence between them forced Finch to look at him again. He hefted the pistol. 

" _This_ isn't who you are. Or who you want to be."

Harold's eyes flashed with fury. "Save me the speech, Mr. Reese. I'm not Megan Tillman."

"No, at this moment you're Lily Thornton," John countered brutally. "The victim of an obsessive, and dangerous stalker. A ghost who plucked you off the street, drugged you with who knows what, and screwed with your head so badly that your first instinct when you were free was to hide instead of call for help."

"I believed I was compromised! I couldn't risk--"

"You were afraid. You're still afraid."

Harold glared at him, speechless, anger draining away to leave raw vulnerability and shame in its wake. He looked lost, his defenses down for the first time since they'd gotten him back. John didn't want to keep pushing, but he needed to, before those barriers rose again. 

"Talk to me, Harold," John rasped softly. "Please." 

Finch looked away. "I've told you everything I remember."

"Then tell me what you suspect."

Harold opened his mouth as if to dispute that there was anything else to add, then closed it abruptly. Lips pressed tightly together, he stared at John, the emotions flickering in his eyes too elusive to grasp. 

He turned and limped over to his desk. Frustrated, Reese released the breath he'd been holding, certain he had lost the man to his computers again. 

Instead of sitting in his chair, however, Finch stood staring down at his keyboard, head bowed as far as his stiff neck would allow, shoulder's rigid with tension. He drew a deep breath, then reached forward and tapped a few keys. 

The screens all flickered, filling with information. Harold immediately turned away. He crossed the few feet to the window and stood staring out at the dark, rainy night. 

John's gaze shifted between the man and the computers. He approached the desk, eyes tracking from one monitor to the next. 

Medical charts. An MRI scan evaluation. Digital copies of x-rays. Blood panels. Tox screen. A DNA test report. Fingerprints.

All dated and time-stamped during the period Finch had been missing.

It took him several moments to understand what he was seeing, and then the devastating enormity of it hit him. John reached back for chair and sank into it. 

He should have put it together sooner. He'd known about the damn tracker. He just hadn't suspected...

Geist hadn't just abducted Finch and taunted him. His game was far more sinister. He'd made it personal, striking at the very heart of Harold's private nature. 

And Harold had been dealing with this alone.

The Sig-Sauer was heavy in John's hand, the warming metal a polar opposite to the cold anger that filled him. He laid the pistol on the desk and glanced toward his friend. Harold hadn't moved since he had taken up his position at the window, his reflection in the pane streaked with wind-swept raindrops. 

The tempest weeping for a damaged soul that wouldn't shed tears of its own. 

_"The dignity of man is everywhere paper-thin,"_ Finch said quietly, bravely breaking the silence. Before John could gather words to respond to that bleak observation, Harold spoke again. 

"Sense memory is a curious thing. It's been tested in the lab. Even sedated, most subjects don't stop receiving input from their other four senses. When questioned about it later, a large percentage can recount a portion of a conversation they shouldn't have heard...describe a fragrance or odor they were exposed to...a taste. It's one of the reasons why people are encouraged to talk to coma patients. To hold their hands, or place a sliver of chocolate on their tongues."

Harold shifted his weight, a sign of distress which countered the flat, unemotional tone of his voice. 

"There's no true visual reference point, of course, but the brain can assemble all the available sensory data and build a... picture of an experience. It's rather like using a program to extrapolate the missing pieces of a photograph. If the clues the senses register have been experienced before, the memory picture can be very vivid. Unfortunately those same past experiences can put an erroneous face on things. Introduce false data. Create an elephant instead of a mouse." He paused. "It makes it difficult to determine whether the image is indeed accurate."

A shrug. Half-hearted. Another 'tell'. Finch didn't want to believe what his mind--and his research--was telling him. And John couldn't bring himself to offer an 'out'. Hiding from the truth wouldn't make it go away. Buried pain only came back stronger and at the worst possible moments. Reese could personally attest to that. He looked back at the monitors, studying the reports before turning back toward his partner. 

"You've had an MRI scan done in the past." 

A flinch. "Yes. Several."

Most likely before and after his spinal surgery, John assumed. Reese had done his homework on posterolateral fusion early in their partnership when he had been trying to assess the older man's physical limitations. He knew there was bone graft in the back of the spine. To provide stability, the vertebrae were fixed using metal screws or wires attached to a metal rod on each side of the vertebrae. 

Titanium was an expensive, but preferred option for that type of surgery. Strong and light, the metal and its alloys were safe from the attraction and torque forces produced by an MRI scanner's magnetic field, so follow-up diagnostics could be done safely. 

Few other metals were compatible with an MRI. John had learned first hand about the dangers of what were called 'missile-effect' accidents, when he'd had a scan done after an op had left him with imbedded shrapnel. The doctors had missed a tiny metal fragment lodged in his shoulder in their initial surgery. During the scan it had literally torn free and clanged against the machine's central magnet. He had gone back under the knife to repair the damage.

If Finch's doctors had used something other than titanium...

Reese shook off that train of thought. Finch was _physically_ as whole as he'd been before he'd been abducted. It was the intangible damage that needed healing. 

"You think Geist scanned you...that this report is yours."

"He said he liked to know his opponents inside and out. It seemed probable that his...curiosity could lead him to certain...investigatory avenues." Harold offered a shrug. "I could be confusing what I remember with the earlier scans. But...there is a certain sense of being...entombed...when one is laying in that tunnel that is...memorable. The air has an odd, dead quality to it...creates a certain pressure against the skin. And the sounds of the machine...they're very...distinctive."

Frightening, too. The noises Reese recalled from his own scan ranged from jackhammer-like tapping and thumping, to loud buzzing and a high-pitched screaming whine as the magnetic coils were switched on and off. He'd had the protection of earplugs, which he doubted Harold's captor had granted his friend.

John scanned the monitor screens again. "And the rest?"

"I have...fragments which might correlate. The sense of being cold...of something heavy against my chest. Being...handled. The smell of blood...struggling to breathe... Suspicions. Little that's evidentiary."

John swiveled toward him. Harold was staring at him through the reflection in the glass. 

"So these reports could be fakes."

Finch nodded. 

"But you don't believe they are." 

"They took some effort to locate."

John shook his head. Geist had shown an affinity for technology, but Finch was better on a computer than anyone Reese had ever met. If it had taken 'some effort' to find the reports, then the data had probably been buried in the back-up of a back-up of a back-up on a remote server somewhere. It was unlikely Geist had left them for Harold to find, although it certainly played into the game of cat and mouse. 

"The x-rays are consistent with those I have in my possession," Harold continued dully. "The information on the blood panel is correct. That's my blood type. And I have...I have needle marks in both arms.

"Of course those marks could have simply been from medications they used to counteract what was in the dart," Finch added. "Miss Shaw did speculate that some medical intervention must have taken place. A digital copy of the x-rays might have escaped my purging of the files. And my blood type is hardly unique."

John's shock was rapidly shifting toward anger. "Can we use any of this to track him? Find out where you were held?"

"The information on the labs has been redacted from the reports. I suspect the scan, samples and x-rays were taken in a small clinic in Whitestone. Where I awoke after the tests were done?" Finch shook his head. "The only certainty I can offer is my awareness of my location when the last sedative wore off."

Reese was stunned. If Finch was correct, he had been less than fifteen miles from their safe-house in Floral Park. Stripped of his clothes and his dignity while they were still trying to piece together his abduction.

"Why there? A clinic wouldn't have an MRI scanner."

"A mobile MRI truck was rented by the clinic for a week's use. The digital transmission data on its operation indicates that the unit was active prior to the first scheduled patient. The timeline fits. I've been unable to locate another scanner in the area that wasn't engaged or out of service during the time I was...gone." 

"Any chance Geist rented it?"

"The clinic contract appears legitimate."

Frustrated, Reese reviewed the images on the monitors again. "I'm assuming your fingerprints and DNA aren't on file anywhere."

"They shouldn't be. When I scrub the electronic footprint after one of our Numbers, the NYPD forensic servers and NCIC database are at the top of the list."

Reese leaned back in the chair, tried to rein in his own emotions to match Finch's detachment. "What he did was...invasive, but it doesn't really give him any advantage. That's why he tagged you with the tracker."

"Hoping I'd lead him to my secrets," Harold said bitterly. 

"How did you know it was there?"

Finch finally moved, turning slowly to face him, face tight with pain. John started to rise from his seat, but Harold waved him off and limped heavily to the second chair at the desk. He lowered himself onto the seat carefully, the slight slumping of his shoulders and huff of breath revealing how badly he had needed to get off his feet.

"The only benefit to living with chronic pain, Mr. Reese, is that one becomes intimately familiar with one's body. Every ache and pain and twitch builds an inventory which represents the status quo. When I awoke, the status quo had changed." He offered the barest of side-ways smirks. A parody of a smile. "Or perhaps it was simply paranoia. As you've noted in the past, I have a tendency to be a bit over-zealous when anticipating the worst case scenario."

"It's kept you alive all this time," Reese noted. "Nothing wrong with being paranoid as long as it doesn't get in the way of living."

Harold's gaze dropped to his hands in his lap, but he acknowledged the admonishment with a small nod. John eyed the monitors again. They needed to move forward. 

"Shaw should see this." 

Harold's head jerked up, eyes widening. 

"Just the tox screen," Reese reassured him. "She might see something that can give us a lead. And it'll give her something to chew on, instead of you."

Finch's gaze flicked to the monitors and immediately away, as if just the sight of the reports was painful.

John suspected it was. He reached for the gun on the desk, studied the way his fingers curved instinctively around the grip. The weapon was a tool. Not good, not bad, the bullet fired from it bearing only the intentions of the user. His partner wanted it for protection, not to create mayhem. Still...

"I'll teach you how to use this," he said softly, making the offer against his better judgment. "But you need to be clear on the reasons why you want to learn. Being armed _wouldn't_ have stopped what happened. If it had been Shaw or me, or even Fusco targeted, we would have gone down just as fast. Carrying a gun might not prevent something like it from happening again."

Harold met his gaze stolidly. 

"Your weapons and strengths have always been your intelligence." Reese nodded toward the screens and added, "Nothing he did touched that part of you."

Harold's gaze dropped to the pistol. With only the barest hint of hesitation, he reached out for it. Reese released it into his grasp, watching closely as Finch simply held the gun in his open hands. 

His weighted silence sat in heavy contrast to John's own roiling uneasiness. In the stillness of the Library, the hum of the servers seemed to increase, thrumming in competition with the storm outside. The hair on Reese's arms prickled. It felt like nature was about to veer dangerously off-course if they continued down this path.

Harold sighed and handed the Sig back to him. "You're right," he said softly. "This won't solve anything. I'm not sure why I entertained the thought it could. Perhaps I _should_ stick with what I know best." 

Reese suddenly felt like he could breathe again.

Finch reached over to the keyboard. Seconds after he'd tapped a few keys, the printer chattered. His fingers flew over several more keys and the screens went dark. He settled back in the chair, looking tired and defeated.

"It's just..." Finch closed his eyes tightly. "Everything _rustles._ "

There was a plaintiveness to his tone, like that of a child stating there was a still a monster under the bed. He was going to lie down in that bed because it was what was expected, but it wasn't going to make the fear go away. 

Reese understood. To the man who was afraid, every shadow held danger, every step the potential for a fall. With a monster like Geist lurking in the shadows, every sound was a round being chambered. 

He set the weapon aside, then reached forward and laid a hand on Harold's knee, grateful that there was no flinch at the contact. 

"Everything will for a while. You'll get through it." 

"And if I can't?"

"We'll be drinking a lot of beer."

"We have too many enemies out there to be spending that much time in a bar," Finch muttered darkly. "Decima isn't going to wait much longer to bring Samaritan online. Vigilance isn't going to stop hounding our every step. And there's always--"

"A new Number," Reese finished the thought for him. "I know. We'll deal with it."

"How do you deal with a ghost?" 

_"'If you sit by the river long enough, you will see the body of your enemy float by.'"_

"Sun Tzu," Harold automatically responded. " _The Art of War_ does resonate with the blood-thirsty," he noted with a touch of his normal acerbity. 

John offered a predatory grin.

Finch stared at him in disbelief. " _You're_ counseling patience."

"Harold." There was no hint of playfulness in his tone. He let the iron control on the darkness within him slip for a fraction of a moment. He didn't often let the stone-cold killer the CIA had made him out of the box, especially within view of Finch, but in this instance, Harold needed to see him, understand and accept how this game Geist had set in motion was going to play out. "Don't confuse patience with apathy. We get a lead, I _will_ end him."

Harold's eyes widened at the blatant promise of murder, but to John's relief, he simply nodded. He glanced at the dark computer screens, sighed softly. _"'Being at a loss to resolve these questions, I am resolved to leave them without any resolution.'"_

"For now."

Harold nodded. He took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. 

Reese gently squeezed his knee. "You need some rest. Come back to the loft with me. Sleep there tonight."

Loosening his tie a little, Harold started to shake his head.

"Or let me take you to one of the safe-houses. Anywhere you want. Just...don't spend another night here."

Finch slid his glasses back on, but kept his eyes averted. "Haven't you seen enough of my scars for one evening?" he murmured.

And that was the crux of the issue; what had pushed Finch to reach for a gun. Vulnerabilities. Shame warring with stubborn pride. 

"You've seen mine all along," John answered softly. 

 

******************

Harold looked up, startled by the unexpected admission. Reese's eyes were filled with compassion and understanding. Acceptance. Love. He glanced down at his hands, mind churning. 

The scars John was talking about weren't the visible reminders of bullets and knife slashes he bore on his body. They were the barely scabbed-over evidence of the deeper wounds from Jessica's death and the government's betrayal; nightmares filled with blood and death, and dark deeds which blackened his soul. They were parts of Reese he shared with no one. He was no more eager to have them revealed and dissected than Harold was to have his own flaws laid bare. 

Yet Harold _had_ known about them from the beginning, understood and accepted that those injuries and their lingering influence formed the man John was, who was he was trying to be--a man capable of violence, but a good man, nonetheless. 

He risked at peek over the rims of his glasses, noting the signs of weariness and strain in John's face. It was like being doused with cold water. In his mind's eye he could see every step of his bizarre behavior over the past few days, and how it had affected the man he loved. He had been foolish, trying to go it alone, when John had been at his side all along, ready to offer the support he needed.

"I won't be a very good guest. I'm not...sleeping well," he admitted.

"I know. Neither am I."

Harold huffed in fond exasperation. "You're not sleeping because you've been perched on the roof across the street keeping watch while I prowl the stacks." 

John shrugged. "It's where I needed to be."

"It would be safer to stay here," Harold said softly. 

"Yes, it would."

"Going out...it's...difficult."

"It's exposure."

Harold swallowed hard. "Geist. He's beaten us twice."

"He _evaded_ us twice," Reese corrected him. "We saved Sandra and Aaron. He only found you because of Pierce. You stonewalled him, and we got you back. That's a win in my book."

Harold was silent for a few moments, his gaze drifting about the room before settling once again on his computers. "It came at a price. Logan Pierce is dead." 

John's expression didn't give anything away, but his eyes glinted with a trace of satisfaction. "When?"

"The report was filed a few minutes after Miss Shaw left. The police found his body this morning. They're quite certain he was murdered by the Russian Mob."

"Good." 

"John--"

"I know you have a soft spot for our Numbers, Finch, but he had his chance. We saved his life three times. He betrayed you to save his own skin. Don't ask me to shed any tears."

Harold carefully laid his hand on top of John's. 

"I won't. But I am glad you walked away and left him alive."

Reese raised an eyebrow challengingly. "How do you know I did?" 

Harold shot him a look which pointedly said, 'don't ask foolish questions.'

"I looked into Mr. Pierce's finances. I wondered if perhaps Geist had manipulated events. Pierce's own arrogance and foolishness led him to ruin. High-risk investments turned sour and a call on his credit line sapped most of his liquidity. Geist might have had a hand in that. I'm not sure, yet. Pierce's new company was under investigation for a host of irregularities. He could have chosen to face the courts instead of entering into questionable arrangements with the Russians."

He sat back in his chair. "Mr. Pierce's problems and transgressions were well publicized. I believe our ghost is a bit of an opportunist. I think he's intrigued by others' misfortunes and looks to find a way to turn those troubles to his own advantage."

"Pierce was following you in order to find me. If I hadn't led him to you in the first place..." Reese shook his head in disgust.

"I'm sure it was a happy coincidence for Geist to discover I was the subject of Mr. Pierce's scrutiny. I was already on his radar, John."

"Something you should have shared sooner," Reese was quick to point out. 

"Yes. At the time...it seemed like a minor threat."

He could tell Reese wasn't satisfied with that answer. A threat was a threat as far as John was concerned, but he seemed willing to let it go for the moment. 

"So if our ghost is an opportunist, what does that mean for trying to find him?"

Harold frowned in distaste. "Unfortunately, it means I'll be reading the society and gossip columns more regularly." He glanced at the monitors, his fingers flexing slightly, itching for a keyboard. 

"Sleep tonight, research tomorrow, Finch," John reminded him.

Harold nodded and shifted his grip to the arms of the chair to push himself to his feet. Reese rose as well, arm offered to provide assistance. Harold hesitated only a moment before accepting it. As soon as he was steady on his feet, John took a step back. 

Harold appreciated the gesture, the acknowledgement of his normal need for personal space, but it was no longer necessary. He knew where he wanted to be.

"The loft then, if the offer still stands," Finch said gently. "Perhaps being under the same roof will allow both of us to rest easier."

 

***************

John felt a surge of relief and let a small smile curl his lips. "We can grab a good breakfast in the morning," he said, knowing he was pushing a little. "At the diner on 10th. With friends." Harold tensed, but Reese pressed the point. "They worked just as hard as I did to bring you home, Finch. They're worried about you."

"As you suggest," Harold acquiesced after a moment's hesitation. "Although... the cafe on 12th offers outdoor seating."

John twitched an eyebrow upward. He hadn't thought Harold was prepared to be that exposed.

"Bear could join us."

"I'll have Shaw bring him along," Reese agreed. 

"After...perhaps...a walk. Assuming there is no new Number."

"And the weather cooperates," John hedged, noting the hesitation. He admired his friend's courage, but progress didn't have to be measured in miles. Every step Harold took outside, every person he reconnected with, was a victory.

Reese crossed to the coat rack, retrieving their gear. He slipped into his coat. The sight of Finch wincing as he struggled to get his own settled, reminded him there was still unfinished business.

"We should include a visit to one of your doctors in tomorrow's schedule." He held up a hand to halt the anticipated objection. "Choose whomever you want, Harold, but that wound on your back needs to be looked at."

Finch stiffened and John feared for a moment that he had undone any progress they'd made. But Harold took a deep breath and moved toward him. He stopped within an arm's length, expression softening as his eyes searched John's face. Reese's pulse quickened as Harold took another step closer, hands coming up to curl gently in the lapels of John's coat. 

It was nearly the same position they had been in days earlier, but there was no sign of the fear and desperation which had infused that encounter. Harold's eyes were clear, his gaze steady. 

"Would you be agreeable if I said I would prefer no touch but yours...in all matters?" he asked softly.

It was an offer John wanted more than anything else, but he hesitated, unwilling to risk Harold's health to his field-trained skills. 

"Medically...if it exceeds your abilities, I will agree to avail myself of Miss Shaw's expertise," Harold said, eyes soft with understanding. "Will that satisfy your concerns?"

John reached out, feathering his fingers along the line of Harold's jaw, the joy of that contact almost painful, now that it was finally permitted. "Yes," he answered simply, to both questions. 

Harold smiled, slow and sweet. He tightened his grip and tugged. Reese needed no further urging. He flowed toward him eagerly, hands cradling Harold's face. The first kiss was soft, a bare touch, a welcome home. The second deeper, filled with longing and need on both sides. 

They broke apart, breathless, Harold leaning his forehead against John's shoulder, trembling slightly. John wrapped one arm around him, tucking him in close, gently stroking down his back, careful to avoid his injury. He ducked his head a bit to rub his cheek against Harold's spiky hair. It was as soft as he had imagined. He groaned low in his throat.

Harold leaned back to gaze up at him. Then he lifted a hand, knuckles ghosting down John's cheek. "I've worried you these past few days."

John slid his right hand around the back of Harold's neck, fingers gently carding the soft short strands at the nape. "Occupational hazard," he rasped. Harold 'humphed' softly, his fingers slipping inside Reese's coat, warm palms gliding up his chest. John grinned down at him. "Tease."

"I wanted this three days ago," Harold muttered, his hands stilling over John's heart. "I just--"

"You weren't ready." 

Harold's lips tightened, eyes darkening. "Geist...what he did...what I suspected...I had to _know._ "

"And now that you do?"

Finch took a deep breath, released it slowly, the furrows creasing his brow smoothing. “An enemy uses your weaknesses against you. My vulnerabilities only give him power over me if I allow it." The gaze he fixed on Reese was determined. "It will...haunt me for a time, John, but he's already taken enough. I refuse to give him anything more."

To prove his intent, Harold stretched up for another kiss, which Reese met enthusiastically. Begun gently, it quickly turned passionate. Harold leaned into him, lips parting, tongue stroking hungrily. John gathered him in, molding their straining bodies together, answering Harold's desire with his own. 

When they finally parted, Harold's eyes were shining, his emotions clearly on display. The depths of what he saw there nearly stole John's ability to speak. The impulse to get the two of them to the closest bed, to love the man into oblivion, was tempered by the knowledge that neither of them were at their best. 

Holding Harold until dawn broke, being allowed to touch and caress, to know he was safe at his side...that would be nearly as satisfying. 

For tonight at least.

"Maybe we'll wait a day for that group breakfast," he suggested with a slow, seductive smile. "Sleep in, instead." 

Harold's eyes lit with mischief, revealing a playful side Reese had never seen as he stroked a fingertip down John's throat. "Sleep? A highly overrated activity," he said, voice dropping into that low range which always made Reese shiver.

John snatched at his hand and brought that teasing fingertip to his lips, nipping it lightly. Perhaps more than holding _was_ on the agenda. He should have learned by now not to underestimate Harold when he made up him mind to act. "You are going to be a challenge, Mr. Finch."

"Always, Mr. Reese," Harold answered smugly.

Outside the thunder rumbled, a gust of wind rattling the Library's aging panes. Both men turned toward the window. Even under the onslaught of the storm, the lights of New York City blazed brightly. John shuddered to consider what level of disaster would have to occur to snuff out that brilliance.

"Looks like the storm's hit its peak," he observed. "Do you want to wait it out for a few minutes?"

Harold shook his head, his gaze going distant. "There's always another storm on the horizon." He blinked, eyes warming as he twisted enough to gaze up at Reese. He reached out to lace their fingers together. "Time is not our ally, John. Let's not waste any more of it." 

 

****************************************

Attributions:

“I will give them nightmares to haunt their dreams long after I'm gone.” --Laini Taylor, Days of Blood & Starlight

“Traumatic events, by definition, overwhelm our ability to cope. When the mind becomes flooded with emotion, a circuit breaker is thrown that allows us to survive the experience fairly intact, that is, without becoming psychotic or frying out one of the brain centers. The cost of this blown circuit is emotion frozen within the body. In other words, we often unconsciously stop feeling our trauma partway into it, like a movie that is still going after the sound has been turned off. We cannot heal until we move fully through that trauma, including all the feelings of the event.” --Susan Pease Banitt, The Trauma Tool Kit: Healing PTSD from the Inside Out

"Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves." -- Confucius

http://www.wikihow.com/Make-an-Electromagnetic-Pulse

“It's enough for me to be sure that you and I exist at this moment.” --Gabriel Garcia Marquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude

“Courage is not a man with a gun in his hand. It's knowing you're licked before you begin but you begin anyway and you see it through no matter what. You rarely win, but sometimes you do.” -- Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird.

“The dignity of man was everywhere tissue-paper thin.” --Dick Francis, Banker

“To the man who is afraid everything rustles.” --Sophocles

"If you sit by the river long enough, you will see the body of your enemy float by.” --Sun Tzu

“Being at a loss to resolve these questions, I am resolved to leave them without any resolution.” --Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov

“The enemy uses those things you're insecure about. Free yourself and take your power back by being secure in who you are - flaws and all.” -- Yvonne Pierre, The Day My Soul Cried: A Memoir

Quotes, dialogue, characters and references from various POI episodes.

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Rated Mature, although not explicit for M/M relationships. There is a non-consensual aspect to the medical procedures it is suggested Finch endures. Although they are not sexual in nature, they are still invasive, so a warning to those who might find those uncomfortable. They seemed a likely clinical investigatory direction for 'Geist' to pursue to better know his adversary, and created what I hope was a believable level of angst for Finch to have to deal with--a personal insecurity which I tend to believe the character would realistically harbor.
> 
> Spoilers: I'm aware that 'Last Call' isn't a fan-favorite episode, however I've been intrigued with the villain and his threats to Finch in their final phone call. It struck me that if their 'ghost' did come after Harold for revenge, it would be in an extremely personal fashion. The last thing he says to Finch in the phone call is, "Be seeing you." To me that was the first move in a game which put a Sword of Damocles over Harold's head...you never know when it's going to fall, or how sharp that edge is. Those ideas prompted this story. 
> 
> One of my least favorite Numbers was Logan Pierce, so it was easy to make him the secondary villain of the piece, and kill him off. My apologies to those who liked the character. 
> 
> I am not a native New Yorker--never been there--but I did try to research to make places and settings believable. If I've insulted anyone's neighborhood, Long Island City in particular, by my descriptions, please consider it artistic license, and blame any inaccuracies on Google searches and outdated mapping software. :)
> 
>  
> 
> A final note on 'body consciousness' in regard to Finch. It's difficult to imagine that he wouldn't harbor some insecurities about the physical damage he experienced due to the Ferry explosion, particularly in regard to the exposure involved in the intimacies of the sexual relationship he contemplates with Reese in the opening of the story. My intent was to suggest that he recognizes his 'private nature' and physical scars are personal obstacles, issues that he's trying to get past. He's confident he can be an active partner, he's just having a little trouble taking that next step, hung up on that last worry about Reese's reaction when he sees them. In my head, Harold wants to be seen as an equal in all things with his life-partner, and no one wants to appear less than 100% to a prospective lover. Setting up that awareness/insecurity for Finch early in the story, I thought made his reactions to having his personal space violated by Geist more believable.


End file.
